THE  BLADE 


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FIRST  THE  BLADE 


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THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

H«W  YORK  •   BOSTON  •   CHICAGO  •  DALLAS 
ATLANTA  •   SAN  FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LIMITED 

LONDON  •    BOMBAY  •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  Lrn. 

TORONTO 


FIRST  THE  BLADE 

A  COMEDY  OF  GROWTH 


BY 

CLEMENCE 

Author  of  "Regiment  of  Women" 


First  the  blade,  then  the  ear,  after  that 
the  full  corn  in  the  ear. 

St.  Mark  4.28 


fork 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 
1918 

All  rights  reserved 


COPYBIGHT.    1918 

BT  CLEMENCE  DANE 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published,  March,   1918 


Each  man  to  himself  and  each  woman  to  herself,  is  the  word  of  the 

past  and  present,  and  the  true  word  of  immortality; 
No  one  can  acquire  for  another — not  one, 
Not  one  can  grow  for  another — not  one. 

The  song  is  to  the  singer,  and  comes  back  most  to  him, 

The  teaching  is  to  the  teacher,  and  comes  back  most  to  him, 

The  love  is  to  the  lover,  and  comes  back  most  to  him, 

The  gift  is  to  the  giver,  and  comes  back  most  to  him — it  cannot  fail, 

And  no  man  understands  any  greatness  or  goodness  but  his  own,  or 
the  indication  of  his  own. 

WALT  WHITMAN. 


2129126 


FIRST  THE  BLADE 


FIRST  THE  BLADE 


CHAPTER  I 

'ONCE  upon  a  time' — and  we  pull  in  our  deep  chairs,  you 
quietly,  I  with  a  quick  impatient  jerk  that  scrabbles  up  the 
hearth-rug  and  worries  your  tidy  soul.  But  you  yourself 
have  forgotten  the  blinds !  Draw  them  close,  lest  the  Zep- 
pelins catch  us  at  our  story-telling,  whilst  I  put  the  carpet 
to  rights  again  and  pile  up  logs  (we  sawed  them  ourselves, 
didn't  we?)  upon  the  fire.  One  must  save  the  electricity 
these  hard  times.  And  now — you  have  your  knitting  and 
I  the  fountain-pen  you  gave  me:  it  has  not  run  out,  for  a 
wonder!  pen  and  fat,  blank  scribbling  book.  Are  you 
ready?  The  postman  has  gone  by  for  the  last  time  to- 
night— no  letters — but  the  news  was  not  so  bad  to-day — 
the  Russians  have  taken  prisoners — our  front  is  quiet — 
we  dare  forget  the  war  for  an  hour. 

Think — we  are  beginning  a  book!  Do  you  remember 
our  breathless  hour  three  years  ago?  "We  were  over- 
whelmed by  our  own  daring — such  grubs  as  we,  to  dream 
of  spreading  wings,  real,  published,  book-cover  wings, 
black  or  red  (you  were  soberly  for  black,  of  course,  and  I 
for  red)  with  gilt  lettering  across  them.  In  anticipation 
we  enjoyed  ourselves  so  hugely  that  the  book  itself  had 
much  ado  to  get  written  at  all.  But  the  war  has  ended 
that  keen  pleasure  of  ours,  as  it  has  ended  better  things. 
We  begin  soberly  now-a-days — 'Once  upon  a  time ' 

Once  upon  a  time,  before  the  war 

You  know,  Adam  and  Eve  must  have  reckoned  that  way! 
Can 't  you  hear  them  telling  stories  to  Cain  and  little  Abel  ? 

3 


4  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

'Ever  so  long  ago,  when  the  tree  of  knowledge  was  still 
pink ' 

'Once  upon  a  time,  before  the  apples  were  ripe ' 

Even  so,  Collaborator  (clumsy  title,  but  even  in  the  7m- 
perial  Dictionary  it  has  no  synonym)  even  so — once  upon 
a  time,  before  the  war,  there  lived  a  hero  and  a  heroine — 
and  their  relations. 

And,  you  know,  we  got  as  far  as  that  four  months  ago. 

It's  not  so  easy,  writing  a  book! 

Let  us  run  over  our  facts. 

The  hero  is  called  Justin,  and  the  girl,  Laura — Laura 
Valentine.  I  know  you  dislike  it,  but  it  is  my  turn  to 
choose,  and  honestly,  if  you  think  it  over,  you  will  find  that 
'Laura'  is  the  only  name  for  her.  She  is  real  enough  al- 
ready to  make  me  sure  of  that.  Laura — grave,  graceful, 
ageless  word,  fits  like  a  glove  my  Laura,  our  Laura,  so  un- 
modern  in  her  ways  and  thoughts,  for  all  she  was  born  in 
'94.  Yet  the  name  stands,  to  you,  for  ringlets  and  bottle- 
neck shoulders,  for  simpers  and  sighs  and  Harry  and  Lucy? 
But  those  were  its  evil  days,  when  it  was  befrilled  and 
crinolined  by  the  same  spirit  that  figleafs  Apollo  and 
measures  the  Milo  Venus  for  a  pair  of  stays.  The  name 
has  older  memories,  older  even  than  its  Italian  gardens 
and  passionate  poets,  memories  old  as  sunshine  and  song 
and  the  laurel-tree  itself.  Indeed,  that  enchanted  bush, 
that  grave  tree  with  blood-red  berries,  that  panting  girl 
within  stiff  bark  and  quiet  leaves,  reminds  me  not  a 
little  of  Laura,  our  own  bewildered  Laura,  when  Love, 
the  crazy  torch-bearer,  came  rioting  down  the  Bracken- 
hurst  lanes,  to  break  through  the  garden  fences  of  her 
ignorance,  and,  entering,  set  the  quiet  house  of  her  mind 
afire. 

And  so,  unless  you  insist,  we  will  keep  the  name :  it  has 
taught  us  already  something  about  her. 

What  is  she  like — to  look  at? 

She  is  shadowy  as  yet,  but  I  think  you  said,  and  I  agreed, 
that  she  has  soft,  shining  eyes — shining,  not  sparkling — and 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  5 

is  wonderfully  light  on  her  feet.  I  think,  what  with  the 
sway  of  her  pretty  figure,  and  her  quick  white  hands  that 
are  the  only  restless  things  about  her,  she  has,  though  she 
is  not  a  little  woman,  a  fugitive,  thistledown  air,  that  makes 
you  want  to  dance  with  her.  Yet  she  cannot  dance :  never 
troubled  to  learn.  Dancing  bored  Justin.  Her  dancing 
days  were  over  before  she  learned  that  it  is  not  always  wise 
to  humour  Justin. 

Thus  far  Laura  Valentine.  The  name  grows  on  you, 
doesn't  it?  That  is  why  you  are  such  a  perfect  Col- 
laborator. I  can  always  persuade  you  into  agreeing  with 
me. 

But  'Justin' — less  easy  to  conceive,  eh?  Yet,  knowing 
Laura  as  little  even  as  we  do,  he  should  be  obvious — prose 
to  her  verse :  she,  the  glove  for  his  hand :  the  red  and  white 
halves  of  an  apple.  Laura  implies  Justin  as  day  implies 
night,  winter — summer,  sunshine — rain.  We  should  be 
justified  in  leaving  them,  at  the  end,  wooed  and  wedded 
and  a ',  in  a  very  rainbow  of  happiness.  And  yet — I  doubt. 

They  fit  too  well,  complement  each  other  too  perfectly. 
I  foresee  complications.  Suppose — only  suppose — that, 
nicely  adjusted  as  their  ages  are  with  seven  years  between 
them  in  the  love  season,  there  should  yet  be  a  hitch  ?  She, 
as  girls  do,  may  have  grown  in  a  day,  an  hour,  in  the  swift- 
ness of  a  handshake,  into  a  woman :  have  entered  into  that 
heritage  of  knowledge,  and  instinct  that  is  more  than 
knowledge,  that  Lilith  willed  her,  and  Helen  perfected,  and 
Rachel  and  Monica,  Grizel  and  Mother  Goose,  have  all 
passed  on:  while  he?  Suppose  that  he  does  not  grow  up 
at  all?  I  only  say,  suppose!  I  have  not  as  yet  an  idea 
of  how  the  story  develops.  "We  are  still  groping  for  our 
hero — don't  even  know  if  he  were  short  or  tall. 

What  have  you  fancied,  of  all  possible  types  ?  You  must 
distinguish,  you  know,  between  the  Justin  of  Laura's  fan- 
tasy, Jupiter  Tonans  when  he  is  not  Tom-Fool,  and  the 
Justin  of  sheer  fact,  who,  worthy  man,  has  not  the  imagina- 
tion to  be  either.  You  must  not  protest.  He  is,  as  Laura 


6  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

and  his  mother  are  fond  of  agreeing,  a  dear,  an  utter  dear, 
if  you  like  (I  never  know  which  face  is  the  prettier  to 
watch  as  they  say  it)  but  imaginative,  never !  Not,  at  least, 
as  far  as  the  story  has  run.  We  are  discussing  the  middle 
of  the  book  by  now,  have  hurried  on  so,  shall  have  to  go 
back  to  our  beginnings  soon.  Let  us  hope  people  will  not 
find  it  confusing.  Not,  I  repeat,  dear  solemn  man,  with 
one  lonely  spark  of  imagination — and  little  enough  humour. 
Collaborator,  he  positively  must  not  have  a  sense  of  humour 
or  he  would  never  collect  birds'  eggs.  And  it  is  essential, 
as  you  will  see  later,  that  he  should  collect  birds'  eggs — 
with  passion.  We  were  saying  that  he  possibly  does  not 
grow-up  at  all.  'Grow'  would  perhaps  be  the  better  word, 
for,  in  a  sense  he  has  been,  at  every  age,  definitely  grown- 
up; has  indeed,  except  for  the  birds'  eggs,  never  been 
youthful.  There  are  some  early  photographs  .  .  .  (No, 
there  are  none  of  Laura — she  was  a  high-tempered  child. 
She  sat  still  once  for  love  of  a  non-existent  canary,  but 
you  did  not  deceive  her  twice.)  But  Justin  'took'  beauti- 
fully. In  all  the  innumerable  pictures  his  bright  squirrel 
of  a  mother  never  tired  of  showing  Laura,  he  is  exactly 
the  same.  Justin  with  rattle:  Justin  enjoying  his  toe: 
Justin  with  spade  and  pail  and  a  seascape:  Justin  with 
blazer  and  bat:  Justin  and  a  smudge  of  moustache:  Jus- 
tin aggressively  clean-shaven :  Justin  at  any  age  from  three 
to  thirty;  but  never  the  incipient  Justin,  the  developing 
Justin,  never  grub  and  chrysalis  and  moth,  but  Justin 
Homunculus,  Justin  in  enlargement,  never  Justin  in 
growth. 

Pleasant,  yellowed  pictures,  for  all  that,  of  a  squarish 
face  with  an  obstinate  mouth  and  intent,  solemn  eyes. 
Solemnity  is  perhaps  the  first  quality  that  would  be  im- 
pressed upon  you  if  you  should  interview  Justin.  Here, 
you  would  perceive,  was  one  who  took  life,  revolving  as 
it  did  upon  the  axis  of  Henry  Justin  Cloud,  with  becoming 
gravity.  He  was  not  pompous,  but  his  slow-moving  mind 
would  be  alarming  because  its  very  intentness  upon  such 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  7 

facts  as  it  grasped  rendered  it  unobservant,  to  the  point 
of  inhumanity,  of  anything  to  which  its  attention  had  not 
been  attracted.  And  you  would  not  find  its  attention 
easy  to  attract.  Upon  your  honour,  unless  you  were 
careful,  you  might  find  yourself  at  times,  his  creator 
though  you  were,  a  trifle  in  awe  of  Justin.  Laura  cer- 
tainly was.  This,  you  know,  is  curious,  for,  as  a  rule, 
nothing  but  a  keen  sense  of  humour  can  wake  in  a  man's 
eye  that  comprehending  twinkle  that  alone  intimidates  a 
woman  of  poise.  And  Justin,  we  know,  had  no  sense  of 
humour  at  all. 

What?  You  protest  once  more  that  without  a  sense  of 
humour  he  cannot  be  a  hero  ?  I  am  shocked.  Who  are  we, 
to  fall  foul  of  Henry  V,  and  Mr.  Rochester,  and  Garth 
Dalmainf  Nevertheless,  if  you  insist 

To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  am  rather  glad  that  you  do 
insist.  Unless  our  hero  and  our  heroine  have  a  sense  of 
humour  there  is  no  chance  at  all  of  a  happy  ending:  and 
in  these  days  a  happy  ending,  for  a  conscientious  scribbler 
holding  the  mirror  to  nature,  would  be  so  manifestly  un- 
true to  life,  would  be  so  consequently  inartistic,  would  be, 
in  short,  such  a  blessed  relief,  that  one  is  tempted  to  leave 
a  small  chance,  a  stray  peg  on  which  to  hang  a  wedding 
garment,  should  sir  and  lady,  at  the  last,  combine  to  send 
out  invitations  and  include  their  chroniclers. 

So  Justin  is  to  have  an  embryonic  sense  of  humour ;  that 
is  to  say,  he  shall  have,  at  least,  eyes  in  his  head,  and  will 
one  day,  you  are  sure  and  I  hope,  learn  to  see  with  them ; 
but  at  the  crisis  of  his  life  I  fear  he  will  be  still  purblind, 
wearing  the  pedantry  his  own  spiritual  myopia  has  in- 
duced, like  smoke-coloured  spectacles  upon  his  Eoman 
nose. 

Thus  far,  in  his  turn,  Henry  Justin  Cloud.  He  has 
stirred  at  last,  and  the  girl  with  him,  in  the  shadows  of 
this  half-planned  tale  in  which  we,  too,  wander  uncer- 
tainly, ignorant  of  their  story,  guessing  at  their  fate,  know- 
ing only,  with  a  touch  of  awe,  that  out  of  nothingness  they 


8  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

have  been  born  and  must  continue,  linked  and  struggling, 
to  an  appointed,  undiscovered  end. 

And  here,  suddenly,  in  the  vague  muddle  of  my  mind 
or  yours,  but  as  certainly  as  if  he  were  sitting  beside  us, 
Justin  lights  his  pipe.  And  the  spark,  flaring  up  like  a 
thought,  shows  Laura  at  his  elbow,  shows  how  soft  and 
pale  and  eager  her  face  is  as  she  looks  at  him — and  that 
she  has  beech-red  hair.  And  the  light  fades  again  more 
quickly  even  than  it  came,  and  leaves  us  still  sitting  over 
the  fire,  but  with  two  new,  solid  facts  to  guide  us:  Laura, 
we  have  seen  it  with  our  eyes,  loves  Justin,  and  Justin 
loves,  at  least,  his  pipe.  Which,  for  one  evening's  work, 
Collaborator,  is  not  so  bad! 

Time  for  bed,  I  think.  But  to-morrow,  if  the  news  is 
good,  and  war-work  done,  and  it  is  too  rainy  to  garden, 
we  will  pull  up  our  chairs  again,  and  perhaps,  with  luck, 
get  on  with  Chapter  Two. 


CHAPTER  II 

As  usual,  you  are  perfectly  right.  The  first  thing,  I  agree, 
is  to  decide  where  to  begin;  that  is,  to  discover  at  what 
period  Laura  and  Justin,  who,  after  all,  interest  them- 
selves from  the  days  when  they  were  as  old  as  their  tongues, 
and  months  ahead  of  their  teeth,  begin  to  be  interesting 
to  other  people.  That  is  a  simple  matter?  I  believe  you 
think,  oh  trustful  Collaborator,  that  you  have  but  to  drop 
a  suggestion,  like  a  penny  in  a  chocolate  machine,  for  a 
chapter  to  roll  out,  ready  written,  for  your  censorship! 
Consider  the  initial  difficulties!  "Who,  for  instance,  is  to 
decide  this  question  of  the  interesting  moment?  John 
Smith,  who  likes  a  good  wholesome  love  story  with  Sweet 
Seventeen  for  heroine  ?  Or  Sweet  Seventeen  herself,  whose 
Prince  Charming  must  be  fifty  if  a  day,  grey-headed,  iron- 
mouthed,  and  hopelessly  entangled  with  a  repentant  actress 
of  at  least  three  distinct,  disreputable  pasts?  Would  they 
be  interested  in  the  countrified  Laura,  not  yet  a  schoolgirl, 
whom  I  should  dearly  love  to  draw  ?  Of  course  not ! 

No,  the  protagonists  must  be  at  least  in  their  quarter 
century.  But  what  would  Mrs.  Cloud,  on  the  other  hand, 
say  to  that?  Slur  over,  if  not  ignore,  the  first  ten,  let 
alone  the  first  thirty,  years  of  her  son's  life,  we  are,  of 
course,  at  liberty  to  do.  It  is  our  affair!  But,  in  that 
case,  the  book,  frankly,  will  not  be  worth  reading.  A 
character  such  as  Justin's  is  not  so  easily  deciphered. 
Thoroughly  to  appreciate  Justin  we  must  begin  at  the  be- 
ginning. "We  are  probably  not  aware  that  he  weighed, 
at  the  very  beginning,  ten  pounds.  And  speaking  of  teeth 
half  a  page  ago — do  we  know  that  there  is  a  little  white 
tooth,  in  a  little  white  thimble-box,  in  Mrs.  Cloud's  big 
work-basket,  that  still  bears  witness  how  unflinchingly, 

9 


10  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

at  five  and  a  quarter,  Henry  Justin  could  bear  pain? 
Mrs.  Cloud  showed  it  to  Laura  one  expansive  day,  and 
Laura,  fingering  it  as  she  listened  to  the  anecdote  that 
led  so  inevitably  to  another  anecdote,  and  another,  and  yet 
another,  was  whimsically  jealous  that  his  mother  should 
have  had  so  much  more  of  him  than  she.  Had,  as  she 
put  it  away  again  in  the  big  basket  under  the  pile  of  socks, 
a  cold  eye  for  the  exquisite  darns:  wondered  that  Justin 
had  not  got  blisters  on  his  heel  before  now.  And  without 
an  attempt  at  consistency,  sat  herself  meekly  down  at  Mrs. 
Cloud's  feet  to  beg  a  darning  lesson;  which  Mrs.  Cloud, 
with  the  discerning  twinkle  her  son  has  not  as  yet  ac- 
quired, was  very  ready  to  give.  They  were  excellent 
friends,  those  two.  They  had  affection,  and  that  confident 
respect  for  each  other  which  comes  of  thinking  exactly  alike 
on  an  extremely  important  subject.  They  would  have 
both  agreed,  Collaborator,  that  to  make  our  book  a  success, 
we  unquestionably  must  begin  at  the  beginning — the  be- 
ginning, of  course,  of  Henry  Justin  Cloud. 

But  I  would  rather  talk  about  Laura. 

I  know  the  precedence  is  Justin's:  for  Adam  was  first 
formed,  then  Eve.  .  .  .  Yet  Eve,  bless  her  ingenuous, 
enterprising  heart,  is  always  so  much  more  interesting 
than  Adam.  If  Adam  were  not  in  the  Bible,  wouldn't  you 
call  him  'stodgy'?  And  don't  you  think  Eve  did,  under 
her  breath? 

'Adam — what's  that,  in  that  tree? 

'Look,  Adam! 

'  No,  not  there !     Can 't  you  see  where  I  'm  pointing  ? 

'Rather  like  a  pear,  only  round. 

'Adam,  if  you  put  your  foot  so — and  swing  yourself  up. 

'  Of  course  the  branch  will  bear  you ! 

'  Oh,  Adam,  you  might ! 

'I  don't  want  to  eat  it.     I  only  want  to  know  what  it  is. 

'I  do  think  you  might! 

'Don't  then!' 

And  there  the  serpent's  bright,  unwinking  eye  catches 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  11 

hers,  and  the  serpent,  all  unperceived  of  Adam,  whispers 
in  her  ear  the  one  adjective  adequate  to  the  situation. 

And  as,  from  that  day  to  this,  young  birds  have  twit- 
tered as  old  birds  sing,  I  shouldn  't  be  surprised  if  Laura,  in 
her  turn,  has  had  moments — red,  secret,  shameful,  icono- 
clastic moments  when  she,  too,  has  rolled  the  word  relish- 
ingly  over  her  tongue 

"Stodgy!     Stodgy!     Stodgy!" 

But  she  was  always  very  sorry  afterwards.  And  so,  I 
daresay,  was  Eve. 

Adam  was  never  sorry.  He  was  always  perfectly  happy 
and  self-satisfied.  That  is  why  I  prefer  to  begin,  at  any 
rate,  with  Eve — Laura,  I  mean.  For  a  happy  man  or 
woman  is  necessarily  dull,  dull  as  a  healthy  oyster,  and  as 
safe.  Few  enough  will  care  to  pry  open  the  hard  shell  and 
prod  the  smug,  snug  mollusc  inside.  But  when,  as  will 
sometimes  happen,  a  grain  or  two  of  sharp-edged  sand  sifts 
in,  to  scrape  and  fret  and  fester  the  soft  flesh,  why,  then 
the  pearls  begin  to  come,  and  the  oyster  is  worth  a  dive  at 
last. 

Justin,  kindly  born  and  bred,  is,  as  far  as  we  know,  to 
be  happy  all  his  life,  though  he  had  those  ill-used  months 
somewhere  in  his  twenties  for  which  Mrs.  Cloud,  at  least, 
never  quite  forgave  Laura.  But  Laura's  happiness  cracked 
like  a  cup  when  she  was  six,  and  though  she  drank  from 
it  later,  often  enough,  and  pure  nectar  at  that,  it  was  al- 
ways uncertainly,  with  a  frightened  eye  upon  the  rivets 
with  which  Time,  who  mends  most  things,  had  put  it  to- 
gether again. 

I  told  you,  I  think,  that  the  two  were  orphaned :  he  had 
lost  one  and  she  both  parents:  and  if  it  were  a  schoolboy's 
misfortune  to  have  forgotten  his  father  (Mrs.  Cloud  had  no 
opinion  of  Solomon :  if  his  precepts  could  produce  nothing 
better  than  Rehoboam,  she  had  every  intention  of  sparing 
the  rod!)  it  was  very  much  more  definitely  a  small  girl's 
tragedy  that  she  could  remember  her  mother. 

From  six  o'clock  in  the  morning,  undisturbed  by  the 


12  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

erection  of  a  tent  in  her  bed,  to  six  o'clock  in  the  evening, 
comprehending  that  the  gutterings  from  the  night-light, 
surreptitiously  kneaded  in  small  hot  hands,  are  more  sooth- 
ing and  inductive  to  sleep  than  hymns,  chocolates,  or  even 
The  Three  Little  Men  in  the  Wood,  Laura's  mother  was 
the  most  wonderful  and  satisfactory  person  in  the  whole 
world. 

She  had  tweedy,  uncomplaining  skirts  that  could  get 
through  the  scratchiest  holes  in  a  hedge  without  tearing  like 
Nurse's,  and  blouses  with  blue  fluttery  ribbons,  and  peter- 
sham waistbelts  that  would  go  twice  round  Laura  if  she 
pulled  hard,  and  a  little  straw  hat  like  a  schoolboy's. 
And  she  hardly  ever  wore  gloves.  But  on  Sundays  she 
had  a  floppy  thing  with  a  rose  in  it  and  a  great  trailing 
feather,  and  a  beautiful  brown  frock,  with  red  silk  down 
the  front,  that  Laura  called  the  robin  dress.  She  could 
sing  like  a  robin  too,  high  and  sweet,  and  she  knew  all  the 
songs  that  had  ever  been  sung,  and  had  read  all  the  books 
that  had  ever  been  written,  and  could  tell  you  all  about 
them  all.  She  had  a  dear  smiling  face,  and  her  hair  was 
so  long  that  she  could  sit  on  it,  just  like  Rapunzel,  and 
nobody  could  brush  it  as  Laura  did,  because  her  mother, 
twisting  a  little  in  her  chair  and  making  funny  faces,  often 
said  so.  Her  mother  was  always  saying  and  doing  funny 
things:  she  could  make  Laura  laugh  by  just  looking  at 
her.  Yet  she  was  always  properly  serious  over  a  dead 
bird  or  a  bumped  forehead,  and  had  a  most  soothing  way 
of  making  an  armchair  of  lap  and  arm  and  shoulder  for 
Laura  to  curl  up  in  till  she  felt  better. 

With  Nurse  she  was  simply  magnificent.  She  had  a  very 
of  pretending  that  she  wasn't  afraid  of  her  that  made 
Laura  gasp.  She  had  poured  a  glass  of  rhubarb  and 
magnesia  into  the  slop-pail  once,  before  Nurse's  own  eyes: 
and  had  said,  of  course  Laura  might  have  the  door  of  the 
night-nursery  left  open  if  she  wanted  it — why  not  ? — though 
she  explained  those  shadows  that  dance  upon  the  wall 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  13 

privately  to  Laura  afterwards,  and  so  satisfactorily  that 
Laura  was  ready  to  withdraw  her  objection. 

Yes,  she  was  an  understanding  person.  When  they 
drove  out  in  the  low  pony-trap  through  the  narrow  lanes 
that  were  hedged  with  damson  trees,  she  never  wondered 
that  Laura  should  want  the  long  yellow  straws  that  dangled 
from  the  branches  to  show  where  a  waggon-load  of  corn 
had  passed.  She  would  stand  up  and  rake  them  down 
with  her  whip  without  more  ado.  She  would  stop  half 
a  dozen  times  in  half  an  hour  to  let  Laura  jump  out  and 
pick  herb-robert,  or  convolvulus,  or  ropes  of  briony,  and 
give  advice  as  to  the  weaving  of  a  wreath,  and  wear  it 
round  her  hat  when  it  was  done  at  whatever  angle  Laura 
preferred,  with  an  air  that  proved  to  Nurse  and  other 
mothers  that  she  wore  it  to  please  herself  quite  as  much  as 
Laura. 

And  Laura,  subconsciously,  was  aware  that  the  mother 
she  worshipped,  worshipped  with  equal  frankness  a  small 
daughter  whom  no  one  else  found  particularly  attractive. 
And  it  was  possibly  that  knowledge  that  allowed  the  moth- 
er's personality  so  to  interknit  with  the  daughter's,  that 
its  uprooting  came  near  to  tearing  out  the  child's  heart 
also. 

Yet  the  alliance  was  so  inevitable.  There  were  the 
twins,  of  course,  but  they  were  obviously  Nurse's  prop- 
erty. They  were  fat,  greedy,  red-crested  darlings,  with 
mottled  arms  and  legs,  and  mouths  that  were  always  half 
open  like  baby  thrushes.  Laura  and  her  mother  were  very 
fond  of  them,  though  Laura's  attitude  was  prompted,  I 
fear,  by  the  glory  of  sharing  a  responsibility  with  her 
mother,  rather  than  by  sisterly  devotion,  for  she  was  al- 
ways persuasively  protestant  when  Mrs.  Valentine  sug- 
gested a  visit  to  the  nursery. 

"My  chick,  we  really  wustf  go  and  play  with  Wilfred  and 
James ! ' ' 

"Oh,    Mother!    Ten    minutes    more!     They're    quite 


14  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

happy.  They  don't  really  want  us,  you  know.  Oh, 
Mother,  just  another  ten  minutes !  Because,  Mother — 
darling,  dear  Mother — in  the  inside  of  the  very  inside  of 
your  heart,  you  would  rather  read  to  me,  wouldn  't  you  ? ' ' 

"What?  Bead  to  a  whipper-snip  like  you,  when  the  poor 
little  twins — I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing ! ' '  And  Moth- 
er's  knees  would  give  way  suddenly  and  Laura,  slipping  to 
the  floor,  would  be  tickled  till  she  squealed.  And  when 
she  had  had  her  ten  minutes,  full  measure,  Mother  would 
recollect  herself  guiltily,  and  hurrying  upstairs,  be  very, 
very  kind  to  Wilfred  and  to  James.  But  Laura,  in  dutiful 
imitation,  would  yet  be  glancing,  ever  and  again,  from 
Noah's  Ark  and  pat-ball,  to  watch  the  beloved  face,  and 
wait  for  a  stray  smile;  and  when  it  came  her  way,  would 
whisper  to  herself  in  fierce,  delicious  exultation 

"But  she's  my  mother  most!" 

You  protest?  You  think  such  jealousy,  such  ecstasy, 
unchildlike  and  fantastic  ?  And  if  not  impossible  in  such  a 
baby,  at  least  improbable  and  rather  distressing  ?  And  you 
don't  believe  children  are  like  that?  I  can't  help  it.  You 
ought  to  be  right,  but  you  are  not.  Laura  was  '  like  that. ' 
An  unpleasant  child?  If  you  please.  But  her  mother 
never  thought  so.  And  if  some  premature  instinct  made 
her,  young  as  she  was,  so  proud  and  jealous  of  her  place 
in  her  mother's  heart,  the  instinct  was,  at  least,  a  sure 
one.  For  though  many  are  to  like  her,  and  some  to  love, 
never  in  all  her  life  will  she  be  first  fiddle  with  any  one 
again. 

Moreover  her  golden  age  was  coming  to  its  end.  Not 
suddenly,  with  a  hushed  house  and  red  eyelids  and  the  defi- 
nite, numbing  ritual  of  carriages  and  handkerchiefs  and 
hothouse  flowers :  not  in  a  black  day  that  would  have 
yawned  like  a  gulf  between  Then  and  Now,  a  cleavage,  defi- 
nitely unbridgeable,  on  whose  further  brink  Mother  would 
move  ever  more  mistily,  shrouded  in  hopeless  glamour; 
but  imperceptibly,  tenuously,  in  an  ever  lengthening  spider- 
thread  of  hope  deferred. 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  15 

For  Mother  had  only  gone  away  to  get  better !  She  was 
ill,  because  she  had  begun  to  wear  little  white  shawls,  al- 
though it  was  summer-time,  and  sat  still  so  much,  and  did 
not  pour  away  Nurse's  medicines  any  more.  So  Laura 
saved  her  sugar  at  tea-time  for  her  mother,  to  take  the 
taste  away.  There  was  a  day  when  Mother  cried.  Laura 
had  never  known  till  then  that  mothers  could  cry.  She 
held  her  head  and  tried  to  be  grown-up  and  comforting,  but 
she  was  secretly  terrified,  yet  a  little  important  too,  because 
Mother  would  not  let  any  one  be  called,  but  lay  quiet 
against  Laura's  shoulder,  just  as  Laura  had  so  often  lain 
against  hers.  The  next  day,  or  week,  or  months,  she  could 
never  remember  how  long  it  was,  her  lazy  mother  had 
breakfast  in  bed,  and  she  was  to  be  sent  away  to  stay  with 
Gran 'papa  Valentine.  The  twins  were  to  be  left  behind. 
' '  Too  young  to  understand, ' '  said  Nurse  significantly  to  the 
parlour-maid.  Understand  what?  She  coaxed,  implored, 
stormed,  for  an  explanation.  Why  shouldn't  she  stay,  if 
the  twins  did?  She  had  not  been  naughty — she  had  been 
good,  good!  Mother  wanted  her.  Mother  couldn't  want 
the  twins  without  her.  Mother  always  wanted  her.  And 
she  wanted  her  mother — she  wanted  her  mother 

She  fought  like  a  little  wild  cat  while  they  dressed  her, 
in  a  fit  of  passionate  anger  that  shook  her  small  body  as 
wind  shakes  a  bush,  and  that  only  her  mother  had  ever  been 
able  to  control.  There  was  a  wildness  about  it  that  startled 
even  the  stolid  nurse,  who  could  not  guess  at  the  forebod- 
ing, the  desperation  that  underlay  the  paroxysm,  and  was, 
of  course,  as  incomprehensible  to  the  child  herself  as  his 
own  despair  to  the  dog  who  watches  you  pack  your  trunk. 

It  was  the  friendly  parlour-maid  who  came  to  the  rescue 
with  her  cheerful 

"Now,  Miss  Laura,  you  won't  be  let  say  good-bye  to  your 
ma  if  you  can 't  be  good ! ' ' 

That  quieted  her,  banished  the  unreasoning  fear  that  had 
been  upon  her  of  the  hateful  strength  of  her  nurse's  arms, 
that  at  any  peremptory  moment  might  seize  and  bear  her, 


16  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

struggling,  helpless,  into  the  wilderness  where  Mother  was 
not.  She  would  not,  could  not,  go  without  a  word  from  her 
mother,  or  a  promise  or  a  kiss.  .  .  .  But  if  she  might  say 
good-bye — why,  the  world  had  righted  itself  again!  .  .  . 
Mother  would  make  all  clear.  .  .  .  Mother  would  make  all 
right.  .  .  .  Could  she  go  to  Mother  now?  this  directly 
minute  ? 

She  submitted  herself  to  the  maid  (she  would  not  go  near 
the  nurse)  and  was  re-arranged  and  smoothed  and  tidied, 
and  left  at  last  at  the  bedroom  door,  with  a  final  injunction 
to  be  a  good  girl,  and  very  quiet,  and  not  stay  long. 

She  shook  off  the  maid's  hand,  and,  awed  a  little  in  spite 
of  herself,  slipped  into  the  room. 

She  was  so  small  that  the  foot  of  the  big  bedstead 
blocked  her  vision  like  a  wall,  and  for  a  blank  moment  she 
thought  the  room  empty.  Then  the  clothes  rustled  faintly, 
and  emboldened  she  peeped  round  the  post.  There,  sure 
enough,  lay  her  mother,  her  beautiful  long  plaits  disor- 
dered, an  arm  flung  out  weakly. 

She  clambered  on  to  the  bed  and  cast  herself  upon  her 
in  an  ecstasy  of  relief. 

"Mother!    Mother!" 

Well,  she  had  her  half  hour  and  was  sent  away  com- 
forted. Laura  was  to  enjoy  herself — and  be  very  good— 
and  go  on  with  her  lessons — and  be  kind  to  Wilfred  and 
James :  and  there  should  be  letters,  many  letters,  in  a  round 
hand  that  Laura  could  read  all  by  herself.  And  soon,  very 
soon,  Mother  would  come  and  fetch  her  home — and  so 
good-bye  to  Laura,  her  Laura,  her  own  little  girl — 

That  is  how  Laura  went  to  live  at  Brackenhurst  with 
Gran 'papa  Valentine. 

She  got  her  letters,  three  of  them,  but  no  more,  though 
that  was  only  because  there  was  a  new  postman!  But 
though  the  twins  followed  her  in  a  little  while  in  white 
overalls  and  black  sashes,  and  the  weeks  went  by,  and 
Laura  grew  daily  more  excited  and  impatient,  her  mother 
never  came  to  fetch  her  home. 


CHAPTER  III 

IP  they  had  only  told  her  that  her  mother  was  dead ! 

Death,  Laura  understood.  There  had  been  Ben,  the  be- 
loved mongrel  who  was  poisoned,  and  Grandmamma,  and 
birds,  and  once  a  kitten.  Her  mother  had  explained  it  all 
to  her  at  the  time.  Remembering,  she  would  still  have  had, 
in  the  shock,  her  mother  to  lean  upon.  And,  especially  to 
a  child,  death's  finality  is  its  own  anodyne.  But  nobody, 
with  that  anxious  English  substitution  of  euphemism  for 
tact,  ever  used  the  bald  word  'death.'  Mother,  she  was 
told,  was  alive  and  well  and  happy.  She  was  living  in 
heaven  with  Jesus  and  Our  Father.  She  knew  everything 
that  Laura  did,  and  one  day,  if  Laura  were  good,  she 
would  see  her  again. 

Conceive  the  effect  on  a  homesick  baby  with  a  super- 
fluity of  imagination,  and  a  knowledge  of  life  that  would 
have  amused  a  London  sparrow ! 

It  was  simplicity  itself  to  Laura.  Mother  might  come  at 
any  moment,  and  she  would  come,  of  course,  from  the 
station,  along  the  dusty  high-road  that  swept  past  the  end 
of  the  lane  and  that  you  could  see  from  the  window  of  the 
inviolate  spareroom.  Therefore,  till  her  aunt,  in  desper- 
ation, locked  the  door  and  hid  the  key,  neither  persuasion, 
scolding,  disgrace  nor  docked  puddings,  could,  on  rainy 
days,  keep  a  mulish  Laura  from  curling  up  in  the  forbidden 
window-seat  to  watch  the  distant  strip  with  an  air  of  ex- 
pectancy that  would  have  made  that  awaited  mother's 
heart  ache. 

The  fine  days  were  a  more  doubtful  good.  True,  bound- 
aries were  enlarged,  and  from  the  end  of  the  lane  a  wider 
vista  was  under  her  observation,  a  white  river  on  which 
black,  far-away  specks  were  for  ever  swimming  boatlike 

17 


18  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

into  ken,  to  swell  and  lengthen  and  lighten,  at  last,  into 
figures  of  men  and  women — women  in  tweedy  skirts  and 
blue  ribbons  and  little  straw  hats,  that  were  always  Mother 
until  they  were  near.  What  mad  terrier-rushes  that  high- 
road saw,  helter-skelter  down  the  last  hundred  yards,  and 
what  drag-foot  returns  and  hot  tears  blinked  away. 

But  fine  weather  brought  worse  things  than  disappoint- 
ment. It  brought  the  long  daily  walks,  and  picnics,  some- 
times, when  an  aunt  who  was  doing  her  duty  by  roly-poly 
nephews  and  a  taciturn  niece,  thought  it  time  for  a  treat. 
And  then  would  come  the  scenes,  delays,  excuses,  direct 
petition,  and  the  final  '  temper,'  the  white-hot  rebellion 
that  exhausted  alike  the  bored  nursemaid  and  bewildered 
aunt,  and  did  indeed  at  first  accomplish  Laura's  object  of 
being  left  behind.  For,  locked  in  the  night-nursery  to 
consider  its  sins,  the  ha'porth  of  misery,  perched  on  its 
high  chair  like  a  tousled  bird,  would  be  fiercely  rejoicing 
that  once  more  it  had  staved  off  catastrophe — a  mother  ar- 
riving and  departing  again  while  her  little  girl  was  out 
for  a  walk. 

But  such  a  reason  could  not  be  explained  to  Aunt  Adela, 
"Who  Smelt  of  Lanoline. 

Laura  hated  Aunt  Adela  as  she  hated  every  one  in  those 
first  interminable  months  in  that  alien  household.  Her 
all-satisfying  intimacy  with  her  mother  had  created  in  her 
a  habit  of  indifference  to  the  rest  of  even  her  own  tiny 
world,  and  now,  stranded  among  semi-strangers,  she  was 
at  first  so  shy  and  so  fastidious  that,  in  the  happiest  circum- 
stances, it  would  have  taken  time  before  she  learned  how  to 
make  or  receive  advances.  But  it  is  not  easy  to  be  polite 
with  a  hidden  trouble  gnawing,  like  a  fox,  at  one's  vitals: 
and  Laura  did  not  try  over  hard.  For  Laura,  fighting  for 
her  memories  like  a  dog  for  its  bones,  with  a  more  insidious 
foe  than  honest  Aunt  Adela,  had  lost  already  much  of  her 
treasure,  dropping  one  by  one  as  she  struggled  the  pretty 
ways  her  mother  had  taught  her,  and  growing,  in  her  bit- 
ter loneliness,  into  a  very  wild  apple  of  a  small  girl,  over 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  19 

whom  aunt  and  household  and  visitors 'shook  their  heads 
in  despair. 

She  became,  of  course,  as  the  months  went  by,  outwardly 
more  amenable — was  tamed  as  a  wolf-cub  can  be  tamed, 
into  a  semblance  of  domesticity.  There  came,  at  least,  an 
end  to  the  flinging  of  a  frantic  body  from  side  to  side  of 
its  cage.  She  bruised  herself  at  last  into  a  state  of 
acquiescence,  and  even  learned  to  do  tricks.  But  she 
never  forgot  that  she  was  trapped.  Aunt  Adela,  taking 
Wilfred  and  James  to  her  well-meaning  heart,  would 
wonder  why  it  was  so  much  more  difficult  to  do  her  duty 
by  Laura.  Laura  had  been  naughty  at  first,  but  under  her, 
Adela 's,  wise  management  she  was  certainly  settling  down. 
Yet  there  was  something  about  her  that  Adela  found,  she 
hardly  knew  why,  disturbing — distressing  even.  "Why 
couldn't  Laura  be  more  like  other  children?  Why,  for 
instance,  would  she  not  make  friends  with  the  playfellows 
of  Adela 's  anxious  choice?  A  conscientious  aunt  might 
well  plume  herself  on  the  advantages  she  could  confer — 
advantages  that  her  late  lamented,  yet  (between  you  and 
her)  eccentric  sister-in-law  had  never  troubled  to  procure 
for  an  excessively  spoiled  daughter.  There  were  the 
Vicar's  daughters — such  well-behaved  children.  There 
were  the  two  nieces  of  Brackenhurst's  great  man,  old 
Timothy  Cloud,  thrice  Mayor  of  the  neighbouring  market 
town  before  he  died  and  had  a  stained  glass  window  in 
Brackenhurst  parish  church.  And  there  was  the  son  him- 
self, young  Justin  Cloud,  though  he  was  at  school  of 
course,  and  older,  but  nominally  at  least  an  ornament  of  a 
most  select  little  circle. 

Above  all  there  were  the  five  little  Mouldes,  models  of 
deportment,  with  neat  pinafores,  and  straight  fair  hair, 
and  white  eyelashes,  and  noses  moistly  pink,  like  puppies. 
Laura  was  expected  to  invite  or  to  go  to  tea  with  them  at 
least  once  a  week,  though  it  soon  appeared  that  the  visits 
needed  Aunt  Adela 's  eye  to  be  even  superficially  successful. 
Only  Aunt  Adela 's  eye  could  prevent  Laura  from  retiring 


20  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

under  the  nearest  bed  with  a  book,  and  refusing  to  budge 
till  it  was  time  for  herself  or  her  visitors  to  depart.  It 
enraged  Laura  that  the  accident  of  age  should  mark  her 
down  for  friendship  with  Annabel  Moulde,  a  sly,  skinny 
child  to  whom  Aunt  Adela  invariably  referred  as  "A 
little  mother.  So  good  to  all  her  brothers  and  sisters." 
As  if  Laura  didn't  try  to  be  good  to  "Wilfred  and  James 
— when  Aunt  Adela  wasn't  looking!  .  .  .  Because  it  was 
for  Mother  .  .  .  because  she  had  promised  .  .  .  not  to 
please  Aunt  Adela  .  .  .  not  to  show  off  like  Annabel  .  .  . 
Laura  despised  Annabel  for  her  ostentatious  virtue  and 
her  meagre  bookshelf — Queechy,  Ministering  Children, 
Melbourne  House,  Jessica's  First  Prayer.  .  .  .  She  was  ex- 
pected to  be  friends  with  a  little  girl  who  enjoyed — yes, 
enjoyed — reading  Jessica's  First  Prayer!  Yet  Annabel, 
unconsciously,  had  done  her  a  good  turn ;  for  Laura,  burst- 
ing with  the  humorous  horror  of  that  discovery,  had  been 
impelled  to  break  her  habit  of  silence  to  impart  the  joke, 
tentatively,  to  Gran 'papa  Valentine — and  Gran 'papa,  over 
his  spectacles  and  his  Boswell,  had  been  surprised  into  a 
chuckle,  and  a  stirring  of  interest  in  a  grand-daughter  to 
whose  credit  he  had  heard  little,  and,  conversation  develop- 
ing, had  ended,  to  their  mutual  amazement,  in  bestowing 
upon  her  the  freedom  of  his  sitting-room  and  his  biscuit 
tin,  and  certain  of  his  unlocked  bookshelves.  After  which 
there  was,  at  least,  always  Gran 'papa! 

Gran 'papa's  room  was  the  pleasantest  in  the  house — 
small,  square  and  cosy.  The  furniture  was  of  some  yellow- 
ish wood,  glassy  with  polish,  and  there  was  a  chequered 
crimson  tablecloth  and,  summer  and  winter,  a  dancing  yel- 
low fire.  The  window  was  always  open,  and  the  fresh 
warmed  air  smelt  faintly  of  biscuits  and  tobacco  and  old 
bindings.  The  pictures  on  the  walls  hung  orderly,  in 
couples,  Landseer  engravings  and  framed  coloured  casts  of 
trout;  for  Gran 'papa  was  a  fisheman.  He  was  a  fiddler 
too,  though  here  zeal  outran  discretion.  His  violin  was 
wrapped  away  in  silk  and  velvet,  like  a  lady,  and  Laura 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  «1 

was  never  quite  sure  that  it  was  not,  say — first  cousin?  to 
the  fairy  fiddle  in  Grimm's.  She  longed  to  experiment. 
There  was  the  big  desk  with  ink  and  seals  and  wax,  and 
neat  papers  innumerable,  and  a  pot  with  marigolds  or  mi- 
gnonette, and  always  there  was  sunshine  and  the  bad-tem- 
pered canary,  that  would  dash  at  you  from  its  open  cage, 
with  peckings  and  shrill  squeaks  of  jealous  rage,  till 
Gran 'papa  whistled,  when  it  would  perch  upon  his  finger 
or  his  skull-cap,  and  slowly  condense  from  a  passionate 
puff-ball  into  an  elegant  little  gentleman  in  lemon  yellow 
breeches  and  snuff-coloured  swallow-tails,  with  an  eye  so 
fixed  and  bright  that  you  could  swear  it  wore  a  monocle. 

A  memory  to  bring  a  lump  into  a  grandchild's  throat, 
the  picture  of  stern  old  Gran 'papa,  with  his  whole  edifice 
of  dignity  built  up  so  solidly,  from  his  square-toed  boots 
and  speckless  broadcloth  and  his  grey  satin  tie  with  its 
pearl  pin,  to  his  curly  beard  and  cold  blue  eyes,  and  the 
unnecessary  skull-cap  upon  his  splendid  white  head,  fan- 
tastically topped  by  a  scolding  bull-canary.  A  grown-up 
Laura,  looking  back,  a  long  way  back,  might  begin,  be- 
latedly, to  miss  a  half -forgotten  Gran 'papa,  might  wonder 
whether,  after  all,  she  had  sufficiently  appreciated  him, 
realize  with  a  sigh  that  she  had  learned  in  those  young 
years  to  love  him  as  sincerely  and  coldly  and  faithfully  as 
he  had  loved  her;  though  'love'  was  not  a  word  that  Laura 
could  imagine  Gran 'papa  using,  any  more  than  she  could 
hear  him  saying,  'pretty  girl'  when  he  meant,  he  emphati- 
cally meant,  'an  elegant  young  female.'  Even  'young 
woman'  would  have  been  a  concession  for  Gan 'papa's  nice 
ear.  Just  so,  Laura 's  phrase  would  have  been  tempered  by 
Gran 'papa  to  'affection,'  'esteem,'  'respect.'  And  there 
she  would  have  agreed  with  him  again,  for  she  certainly 
respected  him  profoundly.  And  he,  secretly,  respected 
her,  because  in  her  he  could  recognize  his  own  keen,  fas- 
tidious spirit.  Emotionally,  they  were  at  opposite  poles, 
but  intellectually  they  were  allies  with  kindred  tastes  and 
kindred  minds.  Not  kindred  souls — there  they  parted 


32  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

company;  for  where  Laura's  affection  could  invariably  be 
trusted  to  blind  her  to  the  most  obvious  flaws,  the  testing 
tool  of  her  grandfather's  hypercritical  taste  had  left  him, 
at  the  end  of  a  long  life,  with  no  object  worth  loving  at 
all — save  Laura.  That  Laura,  his  flesh  and  blood,  had 
something  of  his  own  grey  matter  in  her  head  too,  was  a 
secret  delight  to  him:  and  by  the  time  he  was  eighty  and 
she  eighteen,  Laura  had  discovered  that  secret  and  how,  in 
consequence,  to  wind  him,  for  all  his  tetchiness,  round  her 
finger.  But  that  is  at  yet  eight  or  nine  years  ahead,  and 
Laura  only  beginning  to  discover  that  in  Gran 'papa's  room, 
at  Gran 'papa's  lowest  bookshelf,  she  could  sometimes  for- 
get to  wonder  if  Mother  would  come  this  afternoon. 

Gran  'papa 's  bookshelf  was  crammed  with  volumes  so  tall 
and  heavy  that  to  pull  one  out  was  breathless  work,  and  to 
lift  it  a  greater  feat  than  lifting  the  coal-scuttle  or  Wilfred 
who  weighed  three  stone.  They  had  to  be  read  by  a 
literary  Laura  reposing  on  her  stomach,  her  legs  waving 
airily,  her  elbows  so  chafed  and  reddened  by  the  harsh  car- 
pet and  her  own  weight,  that  they  are  to  this  day  her  worst 
point.  Which  is  the  reason,  Collaborator,  if  the  matter  has 
bothered  you,  that  Laura,  even  at  that  dinner-party  we 
shall  attend  sooner  or  later,  never  wore  really  short  sleeves. 

But  the  books  were  worth  it,  even  to  the  later  Laura  at 
her  most  feminine  hour  when  Justin,  unprompted,  had 
admired  her  frock  and  said,  not  joking,  that  he  liked  red 
hair.  (Truly — he  said  so!)  For  the  books  were  an  edu- 
cation, and  an  education  is  more  useful  than  pretty  elbows 
when  one  has  a  Justin  for  whom  to  stand  tiptoe. 

But  to  the  early  Laura,  with  her  mother  half  lost  and 
Justin  not  yet  found,  they  were  not  education  but 
Nepenthe — Nepenthe  and  the  Fields. 

There  was  Herodotus,  and  The  Swiss  Family  Robinson, 
and  Gulliver's  Travels;  Pamela,  and  a  first  edition  of  Alice 
(Gran 'papa  approved  of  Tenniel)  and  three  or  four  single 
poems,  each  a  book  to  itself,  with  a  profusion  of  bright- 
coloured  illustrations — Gilpin,  The  Elegy  on  a  Mad  Dog, 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  23 

The  Three  Jovial  Hunstmen,  and  Laura's  favourite,  So 
She  went  into  the  Garden  to  get  a  Cabbage  Leaf.  There 
was  the  Churchman's  Family  Bible,  with  Adam  in 
voluminous  goatskin  draperies,  and  Eve  with  hair  like 
Mother,  and  square  capital  letters  at  the  beginning  of 
chapters  with  tiny  pictures  filled  into  them.  There  were 
the  Cruikshanks — huge  albums  into  which  Gran 'papa  had 
pasted  every  print  or  drawing  of  his  favourite  artist  that 
he  had  come  across  in  fifty  magpie  years.  And  there  was 
Mr.  Punch,  immortal  Mr.  Punch,  endless  volumes  of  him, 
inexhaustible,  a  mine  of  delight,  and  the  true  explanation 
of  the  singular  and  detailed  acquaintance  with  Victorian 
politics  with  which  Laura  of  the  tenacious  memory  could, 
on  occasion,  confound  an  opponent.  Pouring  over  the 
cartoons,  devouring  the  antiquated  letter-press  as  only  a 
small  child  can,  she  had  bewildered  Aunt  Adela  one  day 
on  a  visit  to  Madame  Tussaud,  by  her  delighted  recognition 
of  group  after  group  of  Her  Majesty's  Ministers  who  had 
died  before  she  was  born.  She  adored  Lord  Salisbury,  for 
instance,  and  pitied  him  deeply  for  losing  his  wife,  for  she 
had  him  thoroughly  entangled  with  The  Lord  of  Burleigh. 
But  her  favourites  were  naughty  Randolph,  the  mustachioed 
schoolboy,  being  very  rude  to  Mr.  Gladstone,  and  'Joey,' 
whose  speeches  in  that  last  tragic  tour  she  cut  out  and  kept 
and  learned  by  heart,  and  would  declaim  unweariedly  to 
the  looking-glass  and  the  indifferent  twins,  and  who  was 
nevertheless  inextricably  confused  in  her  teeming,  un- 
focussed  mind  with  her  one  delirious  pantomime  and  Mr. 
Alfred  Jingle. 

'  "Worship  was  even  then,  I  suppose,  a  necessity  of  her 
nature,  and,  her  chief  altar  veiled,  her  mind  was  in  process 
of  becoming  a  pantheon,  in  which  Jane  Eyre  and 
Jephthah's  daughter,  Mary  Stuart  and  Napoleon  (it 
shocked  her  intensely  that  Gran 'papa  could  refer  to  him 
familiarly  as  'Boney')  shared  incense  with  Wamba  son 
of  Witless,  and  Admiral  Byng,  and  poor  Arachne,  who  did 
sew  better  than  Minerva  anyhow !  For  Laura 's  gods  were 


24  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

generally  selected  for  their  misfortunes'  sake.  She  had 
the  instinct  for  lost  causes:  would  always  be  the  loyalest 
of  rebels.  Indeed  her  early  and  equal  passion  for  John 
Milton  and  Marie  Corelli  was  occasioned  by  the  fact  that 
here,  at  least,  were  two  who  could  appreciate  a  poor  devil 's 
good  points.  If  Laura  could  have  had  Providence  under 
her  orders  for  but  one  busy  hour,  how  topsy-turvily  per- 
fect the  world  would  have  rolled  on  again,  with  never  a 
discrowned  king  nor  a  carrotless  donkey  nor  a  motherless 
eight-year-old  in  all  its  boundaries.  Her  baby  sorrows  had 
intensified  her  inborn  sympathy  with  any  ill-treated  thing, 
and,  as  the  leaves  began  to  fall  in  that  first  lonely  autumn, 
she  would  fling  small,  motherly  arms  round  the  shivering 
poplar  on  the  lawn  as  she  passed  it,  and  hug  it  and  warm 
it,  with  defiant  glances  at  the  comfortable  fir  trees  and 
well-dressed  laurels:  would  rescue  dying  flowers  from  the 
bonfire,  and  worms  from  the  birds,  and  birds  from  the 
pussy-cat :  and  when  she  found  a  tell-tale  hole  and  a  nibbled 
book  in  Gran 'papa's  bookshelf  she  was  quite  as  anxious  as 
the  mouse  to  preserve  the  secret.  Can  you  see  Laura, 
Collaborator,  breathing  heavily  with  excitement,  eye  and 
ear  cocked  against  detection,  guiltily  dropping  stolen  cheese 
down  that  mouse's  tunnel  before  she  corked  it  up  and 
turned  with  equally  eager  sympathy  to  the  smoothing  of 
the  poor  torn  book,  and  so,  incidentally,  to  her  reward? 
For  in  that  brown,  ancient  book,  with  its  long  s's  and  its 
wood-cuts  and  its  map,  she  found  the  information  that 
neither  Gran 'papa  nor  Nurse  nor  Aunt  Adela  would  give 
her,  nothing  more  or  less  than  a  definite  description  of  her 
mother's  new  home,  and  full  directions  as  to  how  Laura 
was  to  get  there. 

She  and  the  mouse  had  happened,  in  short,  upon  an  early 
edition  of  The  Pilgrim's  Progress. 


CHAPTER  IV 

IF  you  had  asked  Laura  what  heaven  was  like,  she  would 
have  answered,  almost  involuntarily — "  'A  bald  head/  ' 
and  Wilfred  and  James  would  have  tumbled  over  each 
other  in  their  anxiety  to  join  in  the  chorus — "  'Because  it 
is  a  bright  and  shining  place  where  there  is  no  parting/  " 
and  to  watch  the  effect  upon  you  of  that  dazzling  joke. 

But  after  the  twins  came  to  live  at  Brackenhurst,  Laura 
laid  a  taboo  upon  it.  One  might  joke  with  Mother,  but  to 
joke  about  her,  about  anything  connected  with  her,  was 
sacrilege.  Heaven,  the  twins  were  once  and  for  all  to 
understand,  was  not  in  the  least  like  a  bald  head.  It  was 
in  the  Bible,  a  very  beautiful  place,  a  sort  of  hospital,  and 
Mother  was  staying  there  just  now  to  get  well,  and  if 
Wilfred  or  James  ever  mentioned  that  riddle  again,  Laura 
would  tell  Jesus  about  it  when  she  said  her  prayers,  and 
Jesus  would  tell  Mother,  and  Mother  would  not  bring  them 
one  little  bit  of  chocolate  when  she  came  back.  (You  see, 
she  was  learning  already  how  to  manage  her  men-folk.) 
The  twins  were  impressed  and  obedient;  yet  the  phrase, 
more  illuminating  than  all  Aunt  Adela's  theology,  stuck 
in  their  minds,  and  as  no  child  attempts  to  imagine  an  ab- 
straction, Laura's  bright  and  shining  heaven  lived  on  in 
hers  as  a  pile  of  summer  clouds  lined  with  pink  and  silver, 
on  which  Mother  lay  as  on  a  bed,  with  her  beautiful  long 
plaits  disordered  and  her  arm  flung  out  weakly. 

In  haymaking  time,  when  Laura  was  tired  of  cocking 
hay  for  the  twins  to  pull  down  again,  and  the  lemonade 
and  bread-and-dripping  had  vanished,  and  the  jolly  sun, 
like  Bacchus  on  a  barrel,  sat  astride  the  midday  sky,  the 
indefatigable  twins  would  trot  away  on  their  private 
business  that  was  not  unconnected  with  forbidden  straw- 

25 


26  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

berry  beds,  and  Laura,  lying  on  her  back  in  the  uncut  hay, 
would  stare  up  through  the  sorrel  and  the  toddling  grass, 
and  the  tall  daisies,  and  watch  the  slow  clouds  coming  up 
like  ships  over  the  edge  of  the  world,  and  screw  up  her 
eyes  till  there  were  little  white  crowsfeet  in  the  tan,  to 
peer  the  better  at  each  dazzling  brightness  that  might  be 
heaven  itself  for  all  she  knew.  Sometimes  the  cloud  line 
was  broken  by  a  wisp  of  vapour,  and  then  Laura  tried  to 
be  sure  that  it  was  her  mother's  thin  hand  waving  to  her 
from  over  the  edge  of  heaven.  But  she  was  never  quite 
sure. 

Generally  the  clouds — it  was  a  summer  of  northerly 
winds — came  sailing  up  over  a  slope  whose  crest  of  beeches, 
a  mile  away,  flanked  Green  Gates  and  the  road;  so  that 
when  she  discovered  The  Pilgrim's  Progress,  and  a  drift- 
ing cloud-heaven  had  become  a  stationary  Ccelestial  City, 
it  was  behind  Beech  Hill  that  it  lay,  and  towards  Beech 
Hill  that,  suddenly  grown  acquiescent  in  the  matter  of 
walks  and  picnics,  she  would  urge  the  nurse  and  the  peram- 
bulator :  and  it  was  on  the  sky-line  beyond  Beech  Hill  that 
she  and  Christian  did  at  last,  one  autumn  day,  see  it  shin- 
ing. For  though  she  poured  over  the  unfamiliar  print  till 
her  eyes  ached,  it  was  autumn  before  she  had  mastered  the 
book  and  her  instructions,  and  could  prepare  for  her  own 
private  expedition. 

It  was  Christian's  fault:  he  simply  wouldn't  be  hurried. 
Stumbling  along  beside  him  over  the  difficult  words,  she 
was  out  of  patience  twenty  times  a  day  with  his  credulous, 
open-mouthed  simplicity.  He  was  no  better  than  Wilfred 
and  James  who  always  believed  every  word  that  the  coach- 
man told  them,  or  the  gardener's  boy,  or  the  chattering, 
black-eyed  Frenchmen  who  came  to  the  yard  on  Saturdays 
to  sell  onions.  She  had  no  patience  with  them  or  with  con- 
versational Christian,  wasting  his  time  and  losing  his  way. 
Did  he  think  that  she,  Laura,  would  have  been  taken  in  like 
that,  over  and  over  again,  by  Vain  Confidence  and  Flat- 
terer and  Mr.  Worldly  Wiseman  f  Why,  the  very  names 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  27 

were  enough  to  put  even  the  twins  on  their  guard,  and 
Christian  was  grown-up!  Byways  Meadow — there  she  ac- 
knowledged that  she  too  might  have  strayed:  she  hankered 
after  little  cross-country  paths  herself,  though  Nurse  and 
Aunt  Adela  always  insisted  on  the  dull,  dusty,  put-on-your- 
gloves  high-road;  but  she  would  never  have  pounded  off 
to  Sinai,  or  stood  by  the  hour  arguing  and  disputing  and 
contradicting  about  unintelligible  things  like  Carnal 
Cogitations  and  The  Carcafe  of  Religion,  long  before  she 
had  got  to  heaven  and  found  Mother. 

But  though  Christian  would  go  his  own  gait,  and  skip- 
ping was  unsafe  because  the  adventure  were  tucked  away 
among  the  arguments  like  strawberries  in  a  bed  of  leaves, 
he  did  at  last  bring  her  past  the  Enchanted  Ground  (dis- 
appointingly unproductive  of  fairies)  to  the  Land  of 
Beulah  and  a  clear  view  of  the  Coslestial  City  itself. 

Absorbed  Laura,  curled-up  by  Gran 'papa's  fire  on  that 
clear  October  morning,  reading  of  the  Reflexion  of  the  sun 
on  the  City  (for  the  City  was  of  pure  gold)  and  dutifully 
looking  up  Rev.  xxi.  28,  had  just  stumbled  upon  a  more 
marvellous  heaven  than  even  Bunyan  drew,  when  the 
nursemaid,  as  it  always  happened,  pounced  upon  her  and 
brushed  her  and  buttoned  her  and  gloved  her  and  stuck  a 
hat  upon  her  and  hurried  her  off  for  a  walk,  too  dazed  to 
protest,  with  her  head  full  of  rivers  of  life  and  fruit  trees 
and  gates  that  were  one  pearl  (like  Mother's  ring)  and 
strange,  intoxicating,  unpronounceable  names — the  third, 
chalcedony,  and  the  seventh,  chrysolite,  and  the  eighth, 
beryl.  She  was  far  too  absorbed  to  notice  the  way  they 
went,  and  Wilfred  and  James  were  pelting  each  other  with 
fallen  leaves,  and  Nurse  was  leaning  panting  against  the 
perambulator,  before  she  realized  that  they  had  climbed 
the  long  Beech  Hill  Road  that  Nurse  disliked  because  it 
was  steep  and  lonely,  but  which,  as  the  highest  point  of  the 
highest  village  in  a  hilly  county,  did  certainly  satisfy 
Aunt  Adela 's  belief  in  fresh  air. 

She  stripped  off  her  gloves,  dreamily  accepting  her  good- 


28  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

luck,  and  leaving  the  nurse  to  spread  rugs  beneath  the 
little  wooden  seat,  and  unwrap  the  biscuits  and  the  bottle 
of  milk,  she  wandered  off  aimlessly  through  the  sun- 
splashed  grove,  her  thoughts  still  caught  like  flies  in  a  web 
of  make-believe,  yet  aware  and  enjoying  with  all  her  sensi- 
tive little  soul  the  gallantry  of  the  autumn  morning. 

It  was  a  perfect  day.  Its  colours  shone  through  the  clear 
air  like*pebbles  freshened  in  water,  and  away  upon  the 
sky-line  the  threadlike  roads  and  midget  trees  were  as 
cleanly  defined  as  the  great  trunks  of  the  beeches  them- 
selves, that  stood,  brown  and  naked  and  stately,  like  a 
troop  of  tall  savages,  against  the  brilliant  sky.  Overhead 
the  jolly  wind  that  lived  on  the  hill-top  and  never  went 
to  sleep,  was  hard  at  work  as  usual,  scattering  the  clouds 
in  every  direction,  like  a  bad  dog  frightening  sheep,  tug- 
ging and  tearing  at  the  beech  boughs,  and  sending  down 
the  last  of  the  leaves  in  golden  gusts  into  the  deep  pits  at 
the  roots  of  the  trees,  that  were  half  filled  already  by 
generations  of  leaves,  and  were  as  safe  and  soft  to  jump 
into  as  a  feather-bed.  Laura,  forced  into  a  trot  and  then 
a  run,  was  caught  up  at  last  in  a  sudden  scamper  of  twigs 
and  dust  and  stray  leaves,  and  whirled  along  till  she  felt 
as  if  she  were  flying,  and  clutched  at  a  trail  of  bramble  to 
steady  herself  and  get  her  breath;  but  the  peremptory 
wind  would  have  no  lagging,  and,  catching  at  her  little 
round  hat,  lifted  it  off  her  head  and  trundled  it  along  in 
front  of  her  like  a  schoolboy  dribbling  a  football,  till  they 
were  clear  of  the  trees,  when  it  turned  tail  in  its  sudden 
whimsical  way,  leaving  the  hat  upon  the  ground  and  Laura 
panting  beside  it. 

For  some  slow,  pleasant  minutes  she  lay  still,  listening 
to  the  footsteps  of  the  wind  and  her  own  heart-beats,  with 
her  cheek  pressed  close  to  the  thymy  earth,  still  be- 
sprinkled, late  as  it  was,  with  milk-wort  and  rest-harrow 
and  yellow  sparks  of  tonnentil,  that  glimmered  like  flung 
match-ends  in  fuel  that  was  a  clump  of  spent  brown 
heather.  The  bright,  thin  sunshine  settled  lightly  upon 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  29 

her  like  a  gossamer  scarf  or  a  baby's  breath  upon  your 
cheek  before  it  kisses  you.  Through  shut  eyes  she  enjoyed 
the  spacious  peace  of  the  hill-top,  and  the  delicate  warmth 
seemed  a  physical  expression  of  the  sensation  of  well- 
being  that  was  stealing  over  her,  a  sensation  that,  in  the 
old  days,  had  been  but  another  word  for  her  mother's 
presence.  The  wind,  raging  again  in  the  beech-grove,  was 
a  turbulent  giant  guarding  the  entrance  to  enchanted  lands : 
its  far-away  fury  heightened  the  impression  of  expectant 
silence.  Through  her  pleasant  drowsiness  she  had  an  odd 
feeling  that  something,  something  important,  was  about  to 
happen. 

Lazily  she  sat  up  and  looked  about  her. 

She  had  never  before  strayed  further  than  their  shadows' 
length  from  the  beeches:  the  low-banked  trench,  where 
the  twins  played  'King  of  the  Castle'  and  the  sheep  hud- 
dled against  the  rain,  had  fenced  off  adventure.  But  to- 
day she  and  the  wind  had  cleared  it  in  a  flying  leap  and 
had  run  out  to  the  very  edge  of  the  wide  level  table-land 
that  had  bounded  her  view,  and  before  her  lay  unknown 
valleys  and  ridges,  valleys  and  ridges,  rolling  away  to  the 
sky-line  like  waves  of  the  sea. 

And  on  the  sky-line  itself,  trembling  between  earth  and 
heaven  as  if  it  were  a  great  diamond  swinging  on  a  silver 
chain,  hung  a  glancing,  shimmering  translucency  in  the 
shape  of  a  house — a  castle — a  king's  pavilion — with  a 
central  arch  that  glistered  like  a  high  priest's  breast-plate, 
and  twin  towers  reflecting  the  sun  in  glints  and  rays  and 
flashes  of  white  and  golden  light. 

For  a  long  minute  Laura  sat  motionless,  staring — staring. 
Then  her  heat  began  to  beat  so  wildly  that  she  felt  the 
thud  of  it  as  a  sharp  pain,  and  her  cold  little  fingers  dug 
and  clutched  at  the  soft  turf.  She  could  hardly  breathe: 
she  was  choking,  drowning  in  the  flood  of  joy  that  swirled 
over  her  like  waters  set  free.  She  sat,  white  and  sick 
with  ecstasy,  her  eyes  devouring  the  miracle,  while  in  her 
ears  remembered  phrases  pealed  like  wedding  bells. 


30  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

The  Reflexion  of  the  Sun  upon  the  City.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  and  the  city  was  of  pure  gold,  like  unto  pure 
glass.  .  .  . 

...  a  bright  and  shining  place,  where  there  is  no  part- 
ing. .  .  . 

Her  light  was  like  unto  a  stone  most  precious,  as  it  were 
a  jasper  stone,  clear  as  crystal.  .  .  . 

The  uncounted  minutes  tiptoed  past. 

She  spoke  at  last,  in  a  little  whispering  voice — 

"I've  found  it,"  said  Laura.  ''It's  here.  It  was  here 
all  the  time.  And  Mother ' 

She  counted  the  easy  ridges  that  seemed  so  clear  and 
near,  traced,  with  a  finger  that  quivered,  the  merry  white 
road  playing  bo-peep  in  and  out  of  the  woods. 

"They're  the  Delectable  Mountains,"  said  Laura.  "Of 
course,  the  Delectable  Mountains  and  the  Coslestial  City. 
And  I  can  get  there  by  tea-time.  If  I  run — if  I  don 't  stop 
once — oh,  Mother,  I  can  get  to  you  by  tea-time. ' ' 


CHAPTER  V 

THOUGH  its  anticipation  and  memory  can  fill  a  lifetime, 
the  actual  emotion  must  inevitably  measure  its  intensity  by 
its  brevity.  Ecstasy  and  despair,  those  hill-tops  of  human 
experience,  can  offer,  in  the  nature  of  things,  no  abiding 
place  for  a  pilgrim's  feet. 

With  the  return  of  the  mere  capacity  for  thought,  Laura 
declined  rapidly  from  her  timeless  bliss  into  a  mood  of 
active,  bustling  pleasure.  A  thousand  devices  and  antici- 
pations flitted  through  her  mind  as,  in  feverish  excitement, 
she  mapped  out  the  day. 

She  would  start  at  once,  as  soon  as  she  had  satisfied 
Nurse  by  appearing  for  milk  and  biscuits.  .  .  .  She  and  the 
twins  were  accustomed  to  wander,  within  limits,  as  they 
pleased  .  .  .  She  would  be  over  the  hill  and  away  by  the 
time  Nurse  was  repacking  the  perambulator,  and  when  she 
was  missed,  who  would  guess  where  she  had  gone?  .  .  . 
At  least,  she  was  not  so  sure  of  that.  ...  It  was  very 
strange  that  Nurse  and  Aunt  Adela  had  never  said  a  word 
about  heaven  being  so  close  to  Brackenhurst.  ...  It 
looked  as  if  they  were  afraid  of  her  finding  out  ...  as  if 
they  didn't  want  her  to  see  Mother.  .  .  .  She  clenched  her 
fist.  If  they  tried  to  stop  her  now !  .  .  .  They  had  better 
not  try,  that  was  all!  But  she  would  not  give  them  a 
chance.  .  .  .  She  would  not  let  them  guess  that  she  knew 
anything.  .  .  .  She,  too,  could  pretend  ignorance,  even  if 
she  had  to  tell  a  story  over  it.  ...  Mother  couldn't  bear 
you  to  tell  stories — but  this  was  different.  .  .  .  She  would 
explain  it  all  to  Mother,  and  of  course  Mother  would  under- 
stand. .  .  .  Oh,  the  blessedness  of  being  back  with  Mother 
who  always  understood! 

31 


32  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

She  was  so  absorbed  in  her  meditations  that  the  nurse- 
maid could  approach  unheard. 

"Miss  Laura,  are  you  deaf?  'Ere  I've  calling  till  I'm 
'oarse.  Come  along,  do,  you  naughty  child,  an'  'ave  your 
biscuits.  It's  eleven  or  more — you  won't  eat  no  lunch  if 
you  leave  'em  so  late.  Come  along.  What  are  you  staring 
at?" 

Laura's  eyes  were  as  blank  as  a  cat's.  She  waved  her 
hand  airily  as  she  scrambled  to  her  feet. 

"That  over  there.  What's  that — that  shining  house, 
Nurse?" 

" Green 'ouse,  I  expect."  Nurse  screwed  up  her  eyes 
and  followed  the  direction  of  Laura 's  grubby  finger.  ' '  Oh, 
that!  That's  the  Crystal  Pallis.  It  stands  very  'igh,  you 
know.  As  'igh  as  us,  almost.  Miss  Laura,  on'y  look  at 
your  'ands.  Reely !  A  terrier  'd  'ave  more  sense.  If  Miss 
Adela  meets  us " 

The  Crystal  Palace!  As  beautiful  a  name  as  any  other 
for  a  Ccxlestial  City.  .  .  . 

"Have  you  seen  it  before,  Nurse?" 

"Lord,  yes — any  fine  day.  Must  'ave  a  fine  day,  of 
course.  I  wonder  I  'aven  't  shown  it  you.  I  come  at  night 

once  with  my  friend  to   see  the  fireworks.     My  friend, 
>e " 

Laura  broke  in.     She  knew  all  about  Nurse's  friend. 

"Please  to  remember — Fifth  of  November?"  She  was 
puzzled. 

"Not  only  then.  Any  night.  Lights  up  all  the  sky — 
blues  and  reds,  like  joolry.  Lovely.  I'd  like  to  see  it 
close  to." 

"Why — may  any  one  go  there?"  asked  Laura  casually 
as  they  walked  towards  the  beeches.  But  her  indifference 
was  the  quivering  indifference  of  a  well-trained  dog  on 
trust  before  a  lump  of  sugar. 

"Lord,  yes!     Mother  went  once." 

"Your  mother?    Tour  mother  too?     Did  she?" 

"Yes.     She  went  once.    Brock's  Benefit.    Fine  time  she 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  33 

'ad  too.  Come  along,  Miss  Laura."  She  took  her  by  her 
unwilling  hand.  "You  can  look  at  it  after.  It  won't  run 
away. ' ' 

"Was  it What  was  it  like,  Nurse?" 

"Well — it's  all  glass,  you  know." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  Laura.  "Like  pure  gold 

Many  gates?" 

"Oh,  I  dunno " 

"Twelve,  should  you  think?" 

"I  dessay.     It's  a  big  place.     What,  Miss  Laura?" 

"Twelve  thousand  furlongs,"  Laura  was  murmuring. 
She  raised  her  voice.  ' '  What  else,  Nursie  ? ' ' 

"Oh,  there's  fountains  and  parrots  and  stalls  with  joolry 
— that  brooch  of  mine  come  from  there — "  (it  was  a  sham 
moonstone  that  Laura  and  Nurse  agreed  in  thinking 
superb)  "and  gardens  something  lovely.  Orange  trees, 
my  mother  said,  and  trees  with  tulips  on  'em." 

She  was  thinking  of  magnolias,  but  Laura,  lover  of 
flowers,  drew  a  deep  breath,  thrilling  to  a  vision  of  the 
tallest  tree  on  Beech  Hill  parti-coloured  to  its  topmost  twig 
with  the  tulips  you  buy  in  shops,  long-stemmed,  scarlet 
and  purple,  half  a  crown  a  dozen. 

"Oh,  Nurse!!     And  was  there  a  river,  Nurse?" 

"Oh,  yes — runs  right  through  the  grounds,  with  animals 
on  the  islands — what  d'you  call  'em — antiluviums — awful- 
looking  beasts.  Gave  my  mother  the  creeps,  they  did." 

Laura  nodded,  but  she  was  not  impressed.  She  knew 
them.  She  and  Christian  had  known  them  in  the  Valley  of 
the  Shadow  and  had  taken  no  harm.  Yet  to  assure  herself 
she  asked 

"What  are  they  like?     Is  it  difficult  to  get  past  them?" 

"Why,  Miss  Laura,  they're  not  real  beasts.  On'y  stone. 
Just  antiluviums.  Sort  of  stone  dragons,  you  know." 

"Oh,  I  see."  Laura  nodded  again  as  one  enlightened. 
She  was  acquainted  with  the  Dragon,  too,  and  the  Beast; 
had  met  them  at  church.  .  .  .  They  were  bound  for  a  thou- 
sand years.  .  .  .  Turning  into  stone  was  a  very  good  way 


84  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

of  binding  them.  .  .  .  She  gave  a  great  sigh  of  content.  It 
was  simply  wonderful  how  everything  fitted  in.  ... 

I  beg  your  pardon,  Collaborator?  You  think  it  curious 
that  the  conversation  should  have  been  such  a  satisfaction 
to  her? 

But  why?  Her  Ccelestial  City  hardly  needed  a  nurse- 
maid's recognition? 

Oh,  I  see.  I  see  what  you  mean.  But  then  you  are 
arguing  as  a  '  grown-up. '  We  grown-ups,  of  course,  believe 
or  disbelieve — black  or  white — one  thing  or  the  other — and 
there 's  an  end  of  it.  But  this  is  a  child.  A  child  can  recon- 
cile— look  back,  Collaborator — implicit  belief  and  frank 
scepticism  in  a  way  that,  to  us,  is  all  but  incomprehensible. 
A  child  will  show  you  a  fairy  ring  without  dreaming  that  it 
can  be  anything  but  the  track  of  elfin  feet,  yet  will  in- 
stantly and  vigorously  denounce  as  a  story-teller  the  con- 
temporary who  claims  to  have  seen  the  Little  People  at 
their  dancing.  Fantasy  and  Common  Sense  sit  see-saw  in 
those  early  years,  and  keep  a  wonderful  balance ;  but  when 
the  lanky  'teens  add  their  weight  it  is  generally  Common 
Sense  that  comes  to  earth  with  a  thud,  while  poor  Fantasy 
is  jerked  sky  high  and  lost  for  good  among  the  stars: 
which  is  a  pity. 

Do  you  understand  now  why  Laura — who  will  always 
keep  that  balance,  I  believe,  however  old  she  grows — could, 
with  only  the  Kent  hills  between  her  and  heaven,  be  yet 
distinctly  relieved  that  Nurse's  mother  had  been  there  be- 
fore her,  and  that  children  were  half  price?  Fantasy, 
you  see,  like  a  fairy  sixpence,  had  been  rung  upon  the 
counter  of  Nurse's  mother's  experiences  and  pronounced 
coin  of  the  realm. 

Laura — but  I  wish  you  wouldn  't  interrupt,  Collaborator ! 
I  lose  the  thread.  You  shall  censor  it  all  afterwards,  but 
first  let  me  talk  myself  out.  And  it  is  not  polite  to  mur- 
mur "Impossible"  pointedly  to  your  pointed  knitting 
needles ! 

But  Laura,  all  this  while,  has  sat  meekly  between  the 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  35 

twins,  eating  her  biscuits,  a  good  little  grubby-handed  girl. 

She  was  always  good  when  she  was  left  alone,  as  the  new 
nurse  had  at  last  discovered ;  so  when  the  biscuits  had  been 
eaten  and  the  children  dismissed  to  another  hour's  play 
before  going  home,  it  was  with  the  twins  that  Nurse's 
paperback  shared  her  attention,  rather  than  with  Laura, 
slipping  away  so  quietly  that  her  little  thin  dark  body  and 
red-brown  head  wavering  in  and  out  of  the  big  trunks  was 
scarcely  to  be  distinguished  from  a  slim  beech  sapling 
a-sway  in  the  wind.  Nurse  would  have  settled  down  to  her 
reading  with  less  composure  if  she  could  have  seen  beyond 
the  screen  of  trees,  have  caught  Laura's  backward  glances, 
half  scared,  half  triumphant,  as  she  gained  the  open  hill- 
top, and  her  odd  proceedings  when  she  decided  that  she 
was  out  of  every  one's  inquisitive  sight. 

For  Laura,  the  careless,  the  untidy,  the  hard-on-her- 
clothes,  swayed,  I  suppose,  by  some  broken  memory  of  kind 
hands  pinching  up  her  ribbons  and  smoothing  her  curls,  of 
eyes  very  proud  and  critical  of  their  Laura,  was  first  and 
fastidiously  concerned  with  her  appearance.  She  rubbed 
her  hands  as  clean  as  she  could  on  the  grass,  fastened  a 
careless  button,  pulled  up  her  stockings  and  adjusted  her 
suspenders.  Mother  hated  wrinkly  stockings.  .  .  .  She 
tightened  her  hair  ribbon,  straining  her  hair  off  her  face 
till  her  eyes  nearly  jumped  out  of  her  head,  and  did  her 
best  to  brush  the  long  locks,  that  the  wind  had  whipped 
into  rats '-tails,  round  and  round  her  finger  into  the  sau- 
sages that  grown-ups  desire.  She  took  off  her  shoes  and 
shook  out  the  sand  and  bits  of  leaf,  and  tied  them  in  the 
complicated  tangle  that  Laura  believed  to  be  a  'Louise' 
knot,  because  it  never  under  an  circumstances  came  un- 
done. Indeed,  it  needed  scissors  in  the  evening.  Finally 
she  took  out  her  purse,  poured  the  hoard  into  her  lap  and 
counted  it  breathlessly.  A  penny,  three  halfpennies,  two 
farthings,  and  the  threepenny  bit  that  she  had  had  given 
her  to  put  in  the  plate  on  that  fortunate  Sunday  when 
there  had  not,  after  all,  been  a  collection.  Sixpence  ex- 


36  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

actly.  Children  were  half  price,  so  sixpence  exactly  could 
smuggle  you  through  gates  of  pearl  into  your  mother's 
lap. 

She  took  a  last  look  at  the  patch-work  country,  noted 
once  again  the  lie  of  the  road  through  the  valley  below, 
and  then,  with  a  little  gasp  like  a  bather  taking  the  plunge, 
took  to  her  heels  and  ran  down  the  hill-side. 


CHAPTER  VI 

How  long  a  day  can  be!  An  hour  or  less — so  much  less 
than  an  hour — how  it  can  lie  in  one's  memory  like  an  in- 
terminable road,  when  pleasant  years  are  more  forgotten 
than  towns  passed  in  the  train.  How  long  a  little  time  can 
be!  Once  I  saw  a  woman — not  Laura — grow  old  between 
a  question  and  an  answer — between  the  opening  and  the 
shutting  of  a  door. 

Laura,  at  ten  or  twelve,  would  usher  in  a  reminiscence 
with  "When  I  was  a  little  girl,"  and  look  bewildered  if 
you  laughed.  "When  I  was  young,"  said  Laura,  as  inno- 
cently, at  seventeen.  And  each  time  Laura  would  be 
thinking  of  that  Age  of  Gold  and  Crystal  Palaces,  with 
Mother  at  the  beginning,  and  at  the  end  of  it — Justin. 
And  yet,  less  of  it  than  of  the  four-hour  Odyssey  that  closes 
her  childhood,  that  cuts  her  memories  in  two  and  provides 
you  with  the  spectacle,  comical,  pathetic,  or  merely  curious, 
as  it  happens  to  strike  you,  of  a  proved  soul  waiting 
wearily,  amid  school  books  and  pig-tails  and  lengthening 
skirts,  amid  vanities  and  ignorances  and  experiments,  for 
body  and  brain  to  grow  up  to  it. 

Those  four  hours — joyfully  down  dale  and  up  hill  to 
another  glimpse  of  a  receding  heaven,  and  then  down  dale 
again,  not  quite  so  springily — those  four  hours  Laura  never 
forgot.  Each  incident  of  the  road — the  stumble-stone  that 
cut  her  knee :  a  bolting  rabbit  startling  itself  and  her,  and 
the  fat  thrush  cracking  a  snail  on  her  first  milestone:  a 
stony-faced  house  seen  through  laurels  that  encircled  it 
stiffly  like  an  Elizabethan  ruff:  meteoric  motor-cars  that 
frightened  her  into  ditches,  and  once  a  nettle-bed:  that 
black  wood  where,  through  dead  leaves,  her  own  shadow 
had  stalked  ghoulishly  behind  her,  upon  feet  that  were 

37 


38  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

the  echoes  of  her  own;  the  sun-pool  of  a  chalk-pit,  trail- 
ing and  tropical,  like  pictures  in  the  Swiss  Family  Robin- 
son, with  mighty  garlands  of  old-man's  beard:  a  village 
pond  with  ducks  and  slime  and  dragon-flies:  babies  on 
door-steps,  and  shrill  women:  sharp-horned  staring  cows: 
dust  and  sunshine  and  the  terrible  tramps — each  and  all 
had  been  etched  indelibly  upon  a  mind  that  excitement  had 
made  more  than  ever  sensitive  to  impressions. 

She  picked  a  bunch  of  flowers  as  she  trotted  along,  for  a 
mother  who  would  appreciate  them.  They  were  fruit  trees 
in  heaven,  of  course,  with  leaves  for  the  healing  of  the 
nations,  like  the  eucalyptus  tree,  she  supposed,  on  the 
vicarage  front  lawn;  but  Rev.  xxii  said  nothing  about 
flowers.  "Too  much  pavement,"  thought  Laura,  the 
gardener.  She  supposed  that  even  if  grass  tried  to  seed 
itself  in  the  dust  of  the  cracks  the  dust  would  be  gold.  .  .  . 
There  couldn't  be  much  nourishment  in  gold-dust.  .  .  . 
Anyhow,  here  was  one  of  Mother's  own  autumn  bunches 
for  her,  pulled  from  the  dear  chalk  soil — an  exquisite  dis- 
order of  oat-grass  and  hips-and-haws,  late  sprigs  of  yellow- 
wort  between  the  scabious  cushions,  like  stars  on  a  lilac 
sky,  with  oak-apples  and  bleached  heather  and  fans  of 
scarlet  bracken — all  put  together  by  the  skilful,  flower- 
loving  hands  she  had  inherited  from  her  mother. 

A  bigger  part  than  she  realized  of  her  first  light-footed 
hour  had  gone  in  the  picking  of  them.  The  end  of  the 
second  saw  her  passing  a  village  bakery,  with  a  wistful 
eye  on  the  stack  of  loaves  and  bars  of  mouldy  chocolate 
behind  the  blurred,  thick  panes.  She  hesitated  as,  through 
the  open  door,  the  round,  red-rimmed  baker's  clock  told 
her,  between  hiccoughs,  that  it  was  half-past  two  and  that 
she  was  hungry.  So  hungry,  indeed,  that  for  a  moment 
her  fingers  closed  on  the  purse  at  the  bottom  of  her  pocket. 
A  penny,  three  half-pennies,  two  farthings  and  a  three- 
penny bit  .  .  .  Sixpence  .  .  .  Gran 'papa's  Euclid  him- 
self couldn't  make  it  more  than  sixpence.  .  .  .  No,  she 
mustn't.  .  .  .  Yet  there  was  such  virtue  in  a  ha'penny 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  39 

bun — a  round,  shiny,  sticky,  steamy,  curranty  ha'penny 
bun!  She  supposed  it  wouldn't  do  if  she  offered  St. 
Peter  fivepence  halfpenny — and  explained?  If  only  St. 
John  had  the  keys.  ...  St.  John  would  let  her  in  at  once, 
she  felt  sure.  But  St.  Peter?  He  might,  of  course  .  .  . 
but  perhaps  it  was  wiser  not  to  risk  it.  ...  When  she  got 
to  Mother  there  would  be  tea,  tea  without  bread-and-butter 
first,  the  kind  of  tea  Aunt  Adela  never  knew.  .  .  .  Mother 
would  see  to  that.  .  .  .  She  could  wait.  .  .  .  She  wasn't  so 
awfully  hungry.  .  .  . 

She  turned  resolutely  from  temptation  and  hurried  on. 

But  she  was  no  longer  dancing  effortlessly  along  like  a 
kitten  or  a  whirled  leaf:  her  haste  had  become  deliberate 
and  would  soon  be  painful.  She  was  growing — infallible 
sign  of  exhaustion — conscious  of  her  body:  conscious  that 
her  back  was  aching ;  that  she  was  thirsty  as  well  as  hungry ; 
that,  through  her  sand  shoes,  the  surface  of  the  road 
knubbed  her  wincing  feet.  She  carried  her  bunch  of 
flowers,  drooping,  too,  by  this  time,  across  her.  shoulder  to 
ease  her  tired  arm,  but  they  were  very  heavy.  Such  a 
great  big  bunch — but  then  Laura,  her  life  long,  will  always 
undertake  a  little  more  than  she  can  manage. 

Above  her  the  unconquered  hill-road  stretched  as  steep 
and  long  and  high  as  Jack's  Beanstalk.  She  climbed  it 
wearily,  bargaining  herself  upward — 

"I  will  go  to  the  second  bend,  up  to  the  white  birch.  If 
I  do  it  in  a  hundred  steps  I  will  stop  a  minute.  If  I  do  it 
in  ninety  steps  I  will  stop  two  minutes. ' ' 

But  it  was  always  more  than  a  hundred  steps  for  sand 
shoes,  and  so,  honourably,  though  her  breathless  little  body 
were  rocking,  she  would  not  stop. 

She  reached  the  top  at  last,  too  hot  from  walking  to 
flinch  at  the  shock  of  the  wind,  or  to  notice  that  the  sun 
had  gone  in:  and  found  her  goal  again — twin  towers  and 
arched  body — yet  so  strangely  altered  in  an  afternoon, 
that,  as  she  looked,  she  gave  a  cry  of  dismay.  It  had  been 
so  near,  so  clear,  a  parrot 's  flight  from  Beech  Hill,  but  now, 


40  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

withdrawn  to  an  immense  distance,  it  rose  without  a  glitter 
from  the  iron  rim  of  the  world,  a  grey,  frozen  blur  upon 
the  sullen  sky. 

She  stared  fearfully. 

She  couldn't  .  .  .  she  hadn't  .  .  .  she  couldn't  have 
made  a  mistake  ?  .  .  .  Yet  what  had  happened  ?  .  .  .  What 
in  the  name  of  enchantment  had  happened  to  the  Crystal 
Palace,  the  Caelestial  City,  the  bright  and  shining 
heaven?  .  .  . 

Enchantment!  In  a  flash  her  scared  wits  seized  at  the 
only  endurable  explanation.  Enchantment!  Of  course! 
Of  course !  Oh,  blessedly  of  course !  "What  was  she  think- 
ing of  so  soon  to  forget  Christian,  and  her  Shepherds f  .  .  . 

Beware  that  ye  steppe.  .  .  .  How  they  had  rubbed  it 
in  too!  And  she  hadn't  come  to  a  single  danger  yet  ex- 
cept motor-cars  and  the  cow  with  the  leering  eye ;  did  she 
suppose  she  was  to  win  through  without  a  qualm  ?  Foolish 
Laura,  to  forget  that  between  Delectable  Mountains  and  the 
Gates  of  the  City  lies,  with  all  its  bewilderments,  the  En- 
chanted Ground. 

The  Enchanted  Ground!  Her  eyes  sought  the  far  hills, 
and  once  more  credulity  was  fortified  into  conviction,  for 
even  as  she  watched,  the  white  autumn  dusk  uprose  noise- 
lessly, and  before  it  city  and  hills  alike  shrank  and  were 
gone.  It  was  as  convincing  a  piece  of  magic  as  could  be 
wanted. 

Laura  only  wished  Aunt  Adela  could  have  been  there 
to  see  it — Aunt  Adela,  who  did  not  believe  in  witches — 
Aunt  Adela,  always  sniffing  at  Grimm's  Fairy  Tales/  Be- 
sides, even  Aunt  Adela  would  be — only  for  a  moment — 
some  sort  of  a  companion,  flesh  and  blood  at  least,  at  a 
small  girl's  elbow,  as  she  stands  lonesomely  on  a  strange 
hill-top,  buttoning  the  reefer  that  had  seemed  so  hot  and 
thick  down  in  the  valley,  pulling  down  cuffs  of  sleeves 
through  which  the  wind  is  tunnelling,  making  shivering 
preparation  for  the  plunge  down — down — down — into  En- 
chanted Ground. 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  41 

Impossible  to  turn  back  now — wasn't  it?  ...  What  a 
notion?  .  .  .  Mother  would  be  waiting.  .  .  .  Mother  would 
know  by  now  that  she  was  coing.  .  .  .  One  of  the  Shining 
Ones  would  be  sure  to  have  told  her.  .  .  .  How  excited 
Mother  would  be  growing.  .  .  .  The  Enchanted  Ground 
stretched  from  sky  to  sky.  ...  It  was  beginning  to  rain, 
and  the  wind  cut  through  one's  reefer  as  if  it  were  gauze. 
.  .  .  But  there  was  Mother.  .  .  .  She  could  get  through 
somehow.  .  .  .  Only  she  must  hurry,  for  it  must  be  nearly 
tea-time.  .  .  .  She  simply  had  to  get  to  heaven  by  tea- 
time.  .  .  . 

She  shifted  her  autumn  bunch,  tucked  her  free  hand 
between  frock  and  skin  to  keep  it  as  warm  as  might  be, 
and,  screwing  up  eyes  and  mouth  against  the  drizzle  that 
whipped  her  face,  set  off  at  a  stumbling  trot  down  her 
second  hill-side  in  an  afternoon. 


CHAPTER  VII 

Now  the  same  gust  of  rain  that  was  disputing  with  Laura 
every  inch  of  her  downward  path,  buffeting  her  face,  twist- 
ing invisible  hands  in  her  hair,  and  sopping  her  shoes  till 
she  slipped  and  slithered  down  the  clay-lined  runnels  of  the 
road,  had  already  more  glorious  insults  to  its  credit ;  for  it 
had  bespattered  unconcernedly,  as  it  soughed  past  him,  the 
comfortable  person  as  well  as  the  immaculate  bicycle  of 
Mr.  H.  J.  Cloud.  Henry  Justin,  no  less,  who,  on  this  par- 
ticular October  Saturday  at  half-past  four  of  what  should 
have  been  a  fine  afternoon,  was  a  week  short  of  his  six- 
teenth birthday;  discreetly  placed  alike  in  his  form  and 
his  house,  near  enough  to  the  heights  to  satisfy  Mrs.  Cloud 
and  his  own  dignity,  yet  not  near  enough  to  cause  him  any 
responsible  discomfort;  pleased  as  usual  with  himself,  and 
more  or  less  tolerant  of  his  world ;  cycling  home  from  school, 
to  spend  the  Sunday  with  his  mother. 

But  the  hoyden  rain,  abetted  by  her  partner  the  wind, 
had  driven  dripping  fingers  between  the  collar  of  Henry 
Justin  and  the  tanned  neck  of  Henry  Justin,  with  no 
more  emotion  than  if  it  had  been  the  neck  and  collar  of 
the  shivering  insignificance  in  the  reefer  coat  a  mile  or 
so  away  up  the  road:  had  trailed  damply  over  him  and 
across  him,  dulling  his  nickel  work  and  tipping  his  hat 
over  his  eyes,  and  shrilling  on  ahead  again  without  even 
paying  him  the  compliment  of  waiting  for  his  opinion  of 
her.  It  was  brief.  He  jumped  off  his  bicycle  and,  with 
a  thrust-out  underlip  and  a  glance  at  the  threatening  sky, 
gave  the  exclamation  which  stood  with  him  for  acquies- 
cence, dissent,  interest,  indecision,  or  (as  in  this  in- 
stance) annoyance,  the  economical  exclamation  that  Laura, 
in  a  goaded  moment,  will  refer  to  as  a  grunt.  But  she 

42 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  43 

will  withdraw  the  expression  unreservedly  as  soon  as  her 
better  self  once  more  supervenes.  Which  is  typical  of 
Laura,  of  the  rebel  temper  and  the  Quaker  conscience. 

But  that  is  to  come. 

We  should  be  talking  of  Justin,  a  hundred  yards  ahead 
of  us,  opening  a  gate  into  a  field  of  stubble,  disposing 
himself  comfortably  beneath  a  convenient  haystack  till 
the  rain  should  be  over.  To  do  him  justice,  Justin  would 
have  walked  through  it  contentedly  enough,  rather  en- 
joying the  sluicing  downpour,  certainly  without  a  thought 
of  his  clothes,  which  were  as  he  liked  them,  old  and  shape- 
less and  comfortable;  but  he  would  not  ride.  He  was 
as  near  an  old  maid  about  his  possessions  as  a  healthy 
boy  can  be,  and  the  idea  of  exposing  his  fine  new  bicycle 
simply  did  not  occur  to  him.  He  had  lifted  it  like  a  baby 
across  the  stones  and  stubble,  and  had  the  absorbed  face 
that  his  mother  loved  as  he  polished  its  bespattered  handle- 
bars with  his  handkerchief,  picked  a  straw  from  its  chain, 
and,  propping  it  in  the  lee  of  the  wind,  covered  it  with  his 
coat,  as  a  premature  prince  might  cover  a  sleeping  beauty 
with  still  a  week  of  her  hundred  years  to  run.  Thereon, 
climbing  to  the  low  shelf  above  it,  he  raked  together  a  pil- 
low of  hay,  settled  himself  against  it  with  another  grunt — 
contentment  this  time,  for  the  hay  was  soft  and  scented 
and  the  corner  screened  alike  from  wind  and  rain — and 
drew  a  small  book  and  a  large  apple  from  his  pocket. 
Justin  never  neglected  either  of  his  inner  men.  The  apple 
was  a  pippin,  and  the  book 's  author  a  discovery  of  Justin 's. 
He  recommended  him  to  every  one.  I  think  his  name  was 
Carlyle. 

He  had  been  reading  for  half  an  hour,  more  and  more 
slowly,  for  the  haystack-drowse  that  is  not  the  least  of  the 
spells  of  the  Witch  of  Kent  was  creeping  over  him,  when 
his  ear  was  caught  by  a  rustle  that  might  have  been  a 
mouse  in  the  wall  of  the  stack,  or  a  sparrow  stealing  straw, 
or  the  leaves  of  his  own  book — it  had  slipped  from  his 
fingers — fluttered  by  the  air.  He  opened  his  eyes,  idly 


44  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

surprised  to  find  that  they  had  been  closed,  but,  seeing 
nothing  but  rain-laced  sky  and  sodden  field,  made  no  objec- 
tion to  their  shutting  out  that  blank  prospect  again,  when 
the  rustle  recommenced,  punctuated  with  jumping  sounds 
as  of  a  small  dog  scrambling  on  to  a  forbidden  sofa,  and 
finally  by  a  voice,  as  small  and  soft  and  breathless  a  voice 
as  he  had  ever  heard. 

"If  you  please,"  said  the  voice,  "of,  if  you  please — 
could  you  tell  me  the  way  to  the  Crystal  Palace  ? ' ' 

Justin  sat  up  and  stared.  Facing  him,  on  the  edge  of 
the  shelf  of  hay,  hooked  to  it  insecurely  by  fingers  and 
little  digging  chin,  hung  a  small  peaked  countenance, 
wreathed  in  drenched  elf-locks,  with  eyes  like  black  dia- 
monds set  in  rain-washed,  wind-whipped  cheeks. 

Justin  was  too  well-fed  to  be  imaginative.  And  the 
creature  after  all  had  spoken,  had  asked  him  something 
in  good  enough  English:  on  its  bewildering  head  it  wore 
the  most  ordinary  child's  sailor  cap  with  a  gilt  lettering  on 
the  ribbon — H.M.S.  Indomitable;  yet,  for  a  ridiculous 
instant,  its  fugitive,  bodiless  air  beguiled  him,  and  he 
could  have  believed  himself  agape  before  a  changeling,  a 
come-by-chance  of  wind  and  rain,  a  fairy  nothing,  gone 
with  the  sky's  first  dispelling  streak  of  blue. 

' '  If  you  please, ' '  the  creature  began  again  anxiously,  and 
stopped.  There  was  a  sound  of  yielding  hay,  and  before 
Justin  could  stretch  out  a  hand  it  had  disappeared  with 
some  suddenness.  There  was  a  scuffle  and  a  bump,  and 
Justin  thought  he  heard  a  whimper.  He  rolled  lazily  to 
the  edge  of  the  shelf  and  looked  over.  The  child — he  could 
see  now  that  it  was  a  little  girl — was  standing  below  him 
in  the  crushed  stubble,  brushing  mournfully  with  a  hand- 
ful of  the  treacherous  hay  at  the  mud  that  plastered  its 
wisp  of  skirt.  It  had  the  gallantest  air  of  assuring  itself 
that  nothing  on  earth  should  induce  it  to  cry;  though  its 
eyes,  as  it  lifted  them  to  Justin  again,  had  that  shimmering 
brilliance  that  only  unshed  tears  can  give.  But  it  re- 
turned to  the  charge. 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  45 

"If  you  please "  Then,  with  a  sudden  alluring 

solicitude,  "It's  only  me.  I'm  not  a  tramp.  Oh,  I  hope 
I  didn't  frighten  you?" 

"Well — it  was  a  bit  of  a  shock."  Justin  looked  amused. 
' '  I  may  get  over  it. ' ' 

"I'm  so  sorry.  It's  fearful  meeting  tramps,  isn't  it?" 
She  had  all  the  Kent  child's  horror  of  its  bogey  in  her 
voice.  "That's  why  I  was  frightened,  too.  I  thought  you 
were  one,  at  first " 

Justin  murmured  his  gratification. 

She  amended  anxiously. 

"Oh,  only  from  far  off.  But  even  if  you  were,  I  had  to 
ask  the  way.  And  when  I  saw  the  bicycle  I  knew  you 
couldn't  be.  It's  a  lovely  bicycle."  She  regarded  it  with 
wistful  admiration  and,  insensibly,  Justin  thawed,  like 
any  other  male  child  between  eight  and  eighty,  to  the 
feminine  intelligence  that  appreciated  his  hobby. 

"It's  not  bad,"  he  admitted,  stretching  out  a  long  arm 
to  twitch  modestly  at  the  bicycle's  covering,  much  as  a 
woman  straightens  the  hat  that  a  man 's  glance  has  told  her 
is  becoming.  "Humber,  you  know." 

She  nodded  eagerly. 

"They're  the  best,  aren't  they?  Mother's  is  a  Swift. 
She's  going  to  have  a  Humber,  though,  when  she  comes 
back.  She's  going  to  teach  me  to  ride,  then.  She  prom- 
ised. I  began,  you  know,  before  she  went  away.  I  could 
jump  off  splendidly  as  long  as  there  was  grass  to  fall  on, 
but  I  couldn't  jump  on.  But  Aunt  Adela  won't  let  me 

practise  at  all  now.  I  wonder "  her  face  lit  up,  "Oh 

— do  you  suppose  there  are  bicycles  at  the  Crystal  Palace  ? ' ' 

He  looked  down  at  her  amusedly. 

"Why,  of  course.  There's  a  track.  Kaces.  Awful 
sport.  You  ought  to  get  your  mother  to  take  you  one  day, 
if  you're  so  keen." 

"Oh,  she  will,"  Laura  assured  him  happily.  "She  al- 
ways does  what  I  want.  I'll  get  her  to,  directly  after  tea. 
Unless "  she  glanced  up  at  the  heavy  sky.  "Oh,  I 


46  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

oughtn  't  to  be  talking.     I  must  get  on.     I  shall  be  so  dread- 
fully late.     If  you'll  just  tell  me  which  road  to  take- 
She  paused.     "I  suppose — is  it  specially  your  haystack?" 
she  hinted  delicately. 

"Why?" 

"Because,  if  you  didn't  mind — if  you'd  help  me  up — 
it's  so  high " 

Justin  leant  over  good-naturedly  and  held  out  his  hands 
to  her.  She  caught  at  them  and  was  swung  up  with  a  crow 
of  delight. 

"You're  stronger  than  Mother!" 

He  threw  her  gently  from  him  on  to  the  hay. 

"Here,  don't  splash  me  all  over.  You're  as  wet  as  the 
Thames."  For  her  dripping  hair  had  whipped  across  his 
face. 

' '  Horrid,  sergy  wet ! ' '  She  sniffed  at  herself  in  delicate 
disgust. 

"Well,  and  now  you're  up,  what  do  you  want  to  do?" 

' '  There 's  a  cross-roads  further  on.  I  saw  it  from  Beech 
Hill."  She  tiptoed.  "Yes,  there!  I  couldn't  see  from 
the  road.  D'you  see?  Through  that  tree — level  with  the 
nest.  Which  of  them  ought  I  to  take?" 

"Where  to?" 

"Why— I  told  you— the  Calestial  City." 

"The  C  celestial— that 's  in  the  Pilgrim's  Progress!  Is 
it  a  game?" 

"A  game!"  She  was  disappointed  at  such  futility  in 
the  big,  pleasant-faced  boy  she  was  beginning  to  like.  ' '  As 

if "     Then  she  broke  off,  enlightened.     "Oh,  I  see — 

you  call  it  the  Crystal  Palace,  too.     So  does  Nurse.     Shall 
I  get  there  by  tea-time,  do  you  think?" 

"To  the  Crystal  Palace?  You!  My  good  kid!  Some 
one's  been  pulling  your  leg.  It's  miles  to  the  Crystal 
Palace." 

"Oh,  no,"  she  assured  him.  "It's  only  the  enchant- 
ment that  makes  it  look  far.  It's  close — it's  quite  close, 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  47 

really.  I  saw  it  myself  from  Beech  Hill — as  bright  as 
bright " 

"Beech  Hill!  He  regarded  the  diminutive  athlete  in- 
credulously. "You  walked  from  Beech  Hill  today?  By 
yourself?  Rot!" 

"Oh,  yes!"  But  he  could  see  that  his  surprise  or  some 
thought  of  her  own  disquieted  her.  She  jerked  herself  to 
her  knees  from  the  comfort  of  the  hay.  "I  think  I'll  be 
getting  on  now,"  she  said,  with  transparent  politeness  and 
a  sidelong  glance  at  him. 

Now  Justin  was  placidly  accustomed  to  take  things  as 
they  came — rain,  haystacks,  or  nixies  interested  in  Humber 
bicycles.  But  as  he  examined  her  more  closely,  it  was 
apparent  even  to  his  indifference  that,  for  all  her  dishevel- 
ment,  there  must  somewhere  be  a  nursemaid  in  search  of 
this  particular  nixie.  Her  shyness,  rounded  by  courtesy, 
was  not  the  mere  coltishness  of  the  village  child.  A  vague 
sense  of  responsibility  mingled  in  his  mind  with  a  good 
deal  of  amusement. 

"Hi!  Stop  a  minute!"  he  called.  "You!  H.M.S. 
Indomitable!" 

"My  name,"  she  flashed  at  him,  "is  Laura." 

' '  And  mine, ' '  he  countered,  with  a  twinkle,  ' '  is  Justin. ' ' 

She  gave  him  a  wicked  child's  grin. 

"Good-bye,  Mr.  Justin "  and  whipped  her  legs  over 

the  side  of  the  stack. 

But  Justin  could  be  quick  when  he  chose.  His  long 
arm  shot  out  and  caught  her  by  her  loose  child 's  belt.  She 
wriggled  in  his  grip  like  a  snared  rabbit. 

"Steady!  You'd  have  walloped  right  into  my  bicycle 
if  you'd  jumped  then,"  he  reproached  her. 

"It  wasn't  that!  You  didn't  stop  me  for  that!  You 
guessed!  I  saw  you  guess!"  She  faced  him  quivering, 
defiant. 

"Oh,  you  are  running  away  then,"  he  chuckled. 
"Thought  so!" 


48  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

She  turned  on  him  like  a  leaping  flame. 

"You're  going  to  stop  me?  Oh,  and  I  thought  you 
were  nice.  Oh,  you're  not  going  to  tell?  You  couldn't 
be  such  a  sneak ! ' ' 

He  flushed  a  little  in  spite  of  his  sixteen  dignified 
years.  She  was  quick  to  see  it.  Her  tone  altered.  She 
appeased  him  hurriedly. 

"Oh,  but  truly  it's  all  right.  I  promise  you.  Aunt 
Adela  will  be  angry,  of  course,  like  Mrs.  Christian — but 
Mother  won't  mind.  Mother  lives  there,  you  see.  I'm 
almost  certain  she's  expecting  me.  They're  bound  to  have 
opera  glasses  there,  like  the  Shepherds " 

"The  Shepherds?" 

"Oh,  you  kpnow!"  She  stamped  a  muddy  foot  im- 
patiently. "They  lent  them  to  Christian  and  Hopeful  to 
see  the  City  through — from  the  Hill  called  Clear.  But  one 
can  see  better  still  from  Beech  Hill.  I  almost  saw  Mother. 
She's  sure  to  be  watching  for  me  over  the  walls.  And 
I'm  so  late.  I'm  so  late.  Oh,  do  tell  me  the  way  and  let 
me  get  on.  If  you  hadn't  seen  your  mother  for  months 
and  months  and  months "  Her  mouth  trembled. 

' '  All  right !  All  right !  Keep  your  hair  on !  Nobody 's 
going  to  stop  you."  He  was  surprised  to  find  himself  so 
concerned  with  her  concern.  ' '  But  you  can 't  go  anywhere 
in  this  rain,"  he  told  her.  "You'd  be  drowned.  You're 
half  drowned  already.  It's  getting  worse  and  worse. 
You  wait  till  it's  over  and  I'll  see  if  I  can't  give  you  a 
lift  on  my  step. ' ' 

"Oh,  would  you?"  Her  eyes  adored  him.  "Oh,  could 
you?  Shouldn't  I  be  too  heavy?" 

"But  you'd  never  get  to  the  Palace  tonight,  you  know," 
he  warned  her.  "  It 's  five  miles  to  the  next  station. ' ' 

"Oh,  I  mustn't  go  by  train.  It  wouldn't  be  safe.  They 
all  walk  in  the  Pilgrim's  Progress.  Indeed,  I  don't  know 
whether  it's  safe  to  sit  here  so  long.  The  hay's  making  me 
awfully  sleepy.  You  know  what  the  Shepherds  said, 
Beware  that  ye  sleep  not — and  beware Oh!"  She 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  49 

pulled  herself  suddenly  to  her  knees,  examining  him  with 
eyes  of  suspicion. 

''What's  up?"  he  demanded. 

"It's  all  right.  Your  face  isn't  black."  She  sank  back 
relieved  from  the  inspection.  "I  only  wondered  for  a 
dreadful  minute  if  you  were  the  Flatterer."  She  smiled 
at  him.  "One  has  to  be  so  careful,"  she  apologized,  "on 
Enchanted  Ground." 

He  pulled  at  his  ear. 

' '  You  seem  to  be  up  in  Bunyan.  I  don 't  understand  this 
game.  Look  here — why  don't  you  squat  down  and  tell  me 
all  about  it  ?  I  won 't  give  you  away. ' ' 

"Won't  you?"  She  eyed  him  wistfully.  Her  eyes,  like 
any  dog's,  said,  "Can  I  trust  you?"  and  his,  though  he 
did  not  know  it,  told  her  that  she  might.  With  that  long 
look  she  probed  and  accepted  him,  never,  I  think,  through 
all  their  tangled  future  to  doubt  him  again.  Exasperation 
she  might  feel,  and  weariness,  and  once  a  very  exaltation 
of  contempt ;  but  never  doubt — never  any  doubt  at  all  that 
within  the  limitations  of  his  nature,  he  was  honest  and 
kind. 

And,  with  belief  in  him,  the  film  of  secretiveness  that 
had  formed  over  her  mind,  that  was  not  natural  to  her, 
that  was  but  a  consequence  of  her  situation,  was  wiped 
away  like  mist  from  a  window-pane.  She  did  not  realize 
that  she  had  been  longing  for  a  confidant,  but  she  did  curl 
herself,  without  more  ado,  as  close  as  she  could  wriggle  to 
this  likeable  fellow-creature,  and  began  to  talk  to  him  at 
a  rate  that  would  have  astonished  Aunt  Adela.  But  then 
Justin  did  not  interrupt  her  account  of  her  own  pilgrim's 
progress  to  tell  her  that  her  stockings  were  muddy.  And 
so  he  heard,  sleepily,  with  his  eyes  on  the  steady  slant 
of  the  rain,  and  most  of  his  thoughts  far  enough  away 
from  Laura,  all  about  Mother,  and  the  twins,  and  Gran'- 
papa,  and  the  City  of  Gold,  and  what  Nurse's  mother  had 
said,  and  what  Laura  would  do  when  she  got  there — a 
long,  long  tale,  that  reached  him  in  some  shape  as  the 


50  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

Mouse's  tale  reached  Alice.  He  was  left  with  a  vague 
notion  that  Laura  was  a  rum  little  kid,  also  that  the 
mother  must  be  rather  a  charming  person.  He  supposed, 
when  the  rain  stopped,  he  should  have  to  see  the  child 
back  to  her  home.  .  .  .  Yet  it  was  a  bit  of  a  shame  to  get 
her  into  trouble.  .  .  .  Queer,  that  she  shouldn't  be  living 
with  her  mother.  .  .  .  He  wondered  what  was  behind  it 
all.  .  .  .  And  what  was  the  mother  doing  at  the  Palace? 
.  .  .  He  thought  that  only  the  attendants  had  quarters 
there.  .  .  . 

He  roused  himself. 

''Your  mother  lives  at  the  Crystal  Palace,  did  you  say?" 
He  propped  himself  on  his  elbows,  nibbling  a  straw  and 
frowning  meditatively  at  Laura,  who  sat,  hugging  her 
knees,  hunched  like  a  witch  against  the  wall  of  the  stack. 
"Oh,  no!  She's  only  staying  there — till  she  gets  well." 

"Then  where  do  you  live?" 

"Oh,  I  live  with  Mother.  But  I'm  staying  with  Gran'- 
papa. ' ' 

"Yes,  but  where?" 

"I  told  you,"  she  reminded  him  reproachfully,  "at 
Brackenhurst.  Behind  Beech  Hill." 

"Brackenhurst!  I  didn't  know  you  said  Brackenhurst. 
Why,  I  live  at  Brackenhurst,"  he  informed  her. 

"Oh!  Then  I'll  see  you  again."  There  was  most  flat- 
tering satisfaction  in  her  voice. 

He  continued,  unheeding — 

"Funny  I  haven't  run  across  you  before  now.  Of  course 
— you  only  came  in  May.  And  we  were  at  the  Lakes  all 
the  hols.  What  did  you  say  was  your  grandfather's 
name?" 

"Gran 'papa.     Gran 'papa  Valentine." 

"Not  old  Valentine  of  Green  Gates?  Oh,  then  you're 
one  of  the  new  grandchildren !  Of  course.  Oh,  I  know  all 

about  you  now.  But  I  thought — didn  't  some  one  say ? ' ' 

Before  he  realized  that  he  must  check  himself  he  had 
blurted  out  his  perplexity.  "But  I  thought  your  mother 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  51 

was  dead."  Then,  horrified  at  himself — "that  is — I  mean 

to  say — of  course  it  can't  be  the  same "  and  so  stopped 

helplessly. 

She  made  no  reply:  gave  no  sign  at  all  that  she  had 
even  heard  him :  only  leant  motionless  against  the  wall  of 
hay  as  if  some  heavy,  invisible  blow  had  pinned  her  there. 
And  he,  pitying  her,  swearing  at  himself  for  his  inadver- 
tence, sat  uncomfortably  through  the  silence  that  had  fallen 
upon  them,  fidgeting  with  his  pockets,  wishing  that  he 
could  think  of  something  to  say  to  her. 

He  began  at  last,  tentatively,  ingratiatingly — 

"I  say,  Laura !     I  say 

She  lifted  her  head  and  looked  at  him,  searchingly,  as 
one  looks  at  the  last  link  in  a  chain,  in  a  chain  of  cir- 
cumstantial evidence  that  began  far  away  with  medicine 
and  little  white  shawls ;  with  black  sashes  and  a  whispering 
nurse,  and  the  visit  to  Gran 'papa  Valentine.  She  fingered 
those  links,  one  by  one,  recognizing,  testing  them,  and  so 
arrived  at  last  at  the  big,  worried  boy  sitting  by  her  in  the 
hay. 

"Mother  is  dead,"  she  said  to  him,  in  a  voice  that  was 
entirely  unemotional.  She  was  confirming  his  statement, 
not  questioning  it. 

"Oh,  you  know — perhaps — I  daresay  I  muddled  names 
— made  a  mistake,"  he  suggested,  because  he  could 
not  help  it.  And  knew  well  enough  that  he  had  made 
none. 

"Buried?" 

"Oh,  well — surely  you  must  understand "  He  was 

distressed.  He  did  not  know  how  to  phrase  his  answers. 

"There  was  poor  Ben "  Her  voice  quivered.  He 

could  not  know  that  she  was  re-living  a  memory,  stumbling 
once  more,  as  she  played  in  the  long  grass  behind  the 
chicken-run,  upon  her  little  old  dog  who  had  been  missing 
for  two  long  days.  She  remembered  her  delight,  and  then 
her  sudden  terror,  and  the  gardener,  coming  with  his  big 
spade.  Mother  had  been  within  call.  Mother  had  allayed 


52  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

that  grief.    Yet  Laura  had  never  quite  forgotten  the  poor 
stiffened  body  and  the  tiny  swarming  ants. 

And  now  Mother.  .  .  . 

She  was  taken  with  a  fit  of  shuddering.  The  dry-eyed 
sobs  that  a  child  should  not  know  shook  her  pitilessly. 

Justin,  wishing  desperately  that  he  had  his  own  infalli- 
ble mother  at  hand  to  whom  to  surrender  a  situation  that 
was  beyond  him,  did  his  kindly  best. 

"It's  all  right,  you  know,"  he  found  himself  assuring 
her  earnestly.  "It's  really  all  right.  I  know — I  know 
— it's  most  beastly  luck.  But  it's  all  right " 

He  broke  off.  He  might  have  been  the  monotonous  rain 
for  all  the  notice  she  took  of  him. 

He  began  afresh — 

"Laura,''  then,  with  an  effort,  "dear  old  thing — I  say, 
you  know,  you  must  pull  yourself  together."  He  put  his 
hand  on  her  arm,  drawing  away  her  fingers  from  her  face. 

She  yielded  indifferently,  letting  him  do  as  he  pleased. 

He  had  an  inspiration. 

"It's  all  right,  you  know,  about  the  C celestial  City.  She 
is  there,  and  you'll  get  there  some  day,  don't  you  worry 
— only  it  isn't  the  Crystal  Palace.  You'll  have  to  wait. 
But  you  '11  get  there  some  day. ' ' 

She  lifted  heavy  eyes. 
'When?" 

'Oh — I  don't  know.     When  you're  old." 
'As  old  as  you?" 

'Oh,  older  than  that — seventy  or  eighty." 
'Years?" 

He  nodded. 

"It's  seventy  days  to  Christmas.  That's  not  even  one 
year."  Her  voice  trailed  into  hopelessness. 

But  at  least  she  had  spoken.  Justin  was  pleased  with 
his  resourcefulness.  He  tried  again. 

"You  know,  when  you're  grown  up  the  days  go  quicker. 
Oh,  yes — they  simply  whiz.  Honest !  You  11  see. ' ' 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  63 

"Shall  I?"    She  edged  a  little  nearer  to  him. 

"Why,  each  time  you  go  to  bed  you're  a  day  nearer." 
He  pulled  out  his  watch.  "Talking  of  bed — do  you  know 
it 's  half-past  five  ?  What 's  your  bed-time  ? ' ' 

"I  don't  know."  She  leaned  against  him  with  the 
prompt  abandoment  of  a  child  discovering  its  own  fatigue. 

"Not  far  off,  anyway!  I've  got  to  get  you  home,  young 
woman." 

"Aunt  Adela  will  be  angry."  But  her  tone  was  merely 
speculative.  Laura  was  stone  to  Aunt  Adela 's  worst  pun- 
ishments now. 

Justin  considered.  The  steadiness  of  the  rain,  long  over- 
due, was  prophetic.  No  chance  of  its  lifting  this  week- 
end. No  escape,  for  all  his  wasted  hour,  for  Justin's 
bicycle.  Justin's  bicycle  must  submit  to  a  soaking,  with 
Justin  and  Laura  on  its  back.  It  had,  going  by  the  road 
that  avoided  Laura's  hill-tops,  a  seven-mile  run  before  it, 
to  reach  even  Justin's  end  of  Brackenhurst.  Justin,  as  he 
slipped  off  the  damp  haystack  and  resumed  his  sopping 
coat,  thought  that  he  and  his  bicycle  would  have  done 
their  duty  and  something  over  if  they  escorted  Laura  thus 
far.  She  could  be  sent  on  to  Green  Gates  in  the  pony- 
trap,  if  his  mother  did  not  insist,  as  he  shrewdly  suspected 
she  would  when  she  heard  the  whole  story,  on  keeping 
the  child  over-night,  to  be  coddled  against  colds  and  heart- 
ache. 

He  was  not  wrong.  Mrs.  Cloud,  once  satisfied  that  no 
bones  had  been  broken  and  that  he  would  take  a  hot  bath 
and  drink  a  hot  posset  as  soon  as  they  could  be  prepared, 
was  ready  enough  to  follow  him  to  the  hall  where  Laura, 
numbed  with  cold  and  wet  and  the  long  ride  on  Justin's 
cross-bar,  sat  in  a  heap  where  he  had  left  her,  like  a  small 
trapped  animal:  and  after  a  glance,  Mrs.  Cloud,  all  soft 
hair  and  soft  eyes  and  soft  voice,  had  forgotten  even  Justin. 
A  groom  had  been  despatched  to  Green  Gates  indeed;  but 
Laura,  warmed  and  bathed  and  fed,  was  settled  for  the 


54  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

night  in  a  fire-lit  room,  in  the  bed  that  Justin  had  out- 
grown, and  that  his  mother  had  not  brought  herself  to  give 
away. 

Mrs.  Cloud,  as  the  dinner-bell  rang,  had  a  motherly 
good-night,  with  tuckings-up  and  the  tenderest  of  kisses 
for  Laura.  But  Laura  lay  passive,  unresponsive,  on  the 
pillow  that  was  scarcely  whiter  than  her  face,  staring  up  at 
Mrs.  Cloud  with  wide,  dark  eyes. 

' '  What  is  it,  Laura  ? ' '  Mrs.  Cloud  smiled  down  at  her. 

She  murmured  something  beneath  her  breath,  as  a  scared 
child  will. 

"What  is  it?  Do  you  want  anything?"  Mrs.  Cloud 
bent  down,  her  face  close  to  the  unwinking  eyes. 

"I  want "  In  a  whisper  Laura  made  known  her 

need.  "I  want  the  big  boy." 

Mrs.  Cloud  shook  her  head. 

"Not  now.  You  must  go  to  sleep  now.  You  shall  see 
Justin  tomorrow." 

«I  want " 

"Justin's  having  his  dinner.  He's  so  hungry — so  tired 
from  his  long  ride.  He  had  to  carry  you,  too,  you  know. 
You  don't  want  to  call  poor  Justin  upstairs  in  the  middle 
of  his  dinner,  do  you?" 

"No.  Oh,  no."  Then,  with  concern — "Poor,  tired 
Justin!" 

She  lay  quiet. 

But  when  Justin,  on  his  way  to  his  own  night's  rest,  put 
his  head  round  the  door  to  see,  on  Mrs.  Cloud's  behalf, 
"if  that  child  was  all  right,"  he  found  her  lying  as  his 
mother  had  left  her,  still  with  those  wide,  unwinking  eyes 
of  a  watchful  dog  fixed  upon  the  door. 

"Hullo,  old  thing!  Awake  still?  Want  to  say  good- 
night?" 

She  nodded  dumbly. 

He  crossed  the  room,  and  stood  looking  down  at  her. 

"Comfortable?" 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  55 

She  nodded  again. 

"Sleepy?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Oh,  nonsense,  you  must  go  to  sleep.  Look  here — you 
be  a  good  girl  and  go  to  sleep  and  tomorrow  I'll  give  you 
a  lesson  on  Mother's  old  bicycle.  Like  that?" 

She  said  nothing.  He  fidgeted.  He  was  at  the  end  of 
his  consolations. 

"Well — good-night  now."     He  turned  to  go. 

Her  hand  shot  out  and  caught  his  arm. 

"Is  it  quite  true?" 

"What?" 

"About  Mother?" 

"  'Fraid  so."  He  moved  uneasily,  afraid,  boylike,  of 
her  tears.  But  she  did  not  cry. 

"Are  you  sure?     Are  you  sure?" 

He  nodded. 

She  turned  from  him  with  a  sharp  movement,  so  that 
he  could  see  no  more  than  the  outline  of  her  cheek. 

He  stood  beside  her  patiently  for  a  time,  but  she  did 
not  move,  and  he  wondered  at  last  if  drowsiness  were 
doing  for  her  all  that  he  could  not.  With  slow  precaution 
he  began  to  edge  away  his  arm.  Instantly  her  grasp  tight- 
ened. 

"Oh,  I  say — you  must  go  to  sleep,  you  know,"  he  ad- 
monished her. 

She  turned  again,  lifting  herself  on  her  pillow.  Her 
eyes  devoured  his  face. 

"Will  you  really  teach  me  tomorrow?" 

"Of  course  I  will.  I'll  give  you  lessons.  We'll  soon 
have  you  riding  all  over  the  place." 

"But  you're  going  away." 

' '  I  come  home  every  week. ' ' 

"Do  you?" 

"Yes." 

"Honest?" 


56  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

"Honest.  Good-night,  old  thing."  He  hesitated. 
Then,  his  pity  for  her  conquering  his  school-boy  code,  he 
bent  down  and  pecked  awkwardly  at  her  cheek. 

Instantly  he  was  drawn  close,  was  half  choked  by  little 
passionate,  clinging  arms. 

"I'll  love  you.  Oh,  I'll  love  you!"  cried  Laura  desper- 
ately. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

Do  you  remember  Topaz?  Do  you  remember  that  ball  of 
pride  and  red  fur  with  the  inscrutable  eyes  and  erect  tail 
and  no  heart  at  all  as  far  as  I  was  concerned? 

Do  you  remember  her  slow,  insolent  porte,  her  airs  of 
caste?  How  she  lapped  milk,  delicately,  dubiously,  to 
oblige  you,  not  herself?  How  she  would  sit  in  the  fireside 
circle  o'  nights,  her  paws  doubled  under  her,  discreet,  un- 
obtrusive, yet  so  obviously  a  visitor,  that  she  made 
Father,  who  is  a  family  man,  feel  uncomfortable?  How 
she  would  edge  in  graceful  reproof  from  the  uninvited, 
stroking  hand  ?  With  what  silent  savagery  she  fought  you 
if  you  took  her  on  your  knee  ? 

No  cat  to  whom  I  have  belonged  has  ever  treated  me  as 
Topaz  did ;  at  best — with  resignation  as  having  a  nice  taste 
in  eiderdowns  on  a  rainy  night;  at  worst — ignoring  me  as 
subtly  as  she  ignored  the  fluttered  but  inaccessible  canary. 
Yet  I  did  my  best  for  her,  always  brushed  her,  never 
washed  her,  obeyed  barefooted,  in  the  chillest  hours,  her 
peremptory  mew.  Not  that  she  was  consciously  ungrate- 
ful. I  think  she  knew  that  I  meant  well.  But  she  never 
permitted  me  for  an  instant  to  imagine  that  I  understood 
her — I,  who  flatter  myself  that  I  appreciate  poor  pussy 
more  than  most ! 

And  then  the  house  next  door  was  taken  at  last,  by  a 
ramshackle,  elastic  family  with  a  studio,  who  hung  out 
their  washing  in  the  front  garden  as  well  as  the  back. 
We  did  not  call  upon  them.  But  Topaz  did.  Call?  She 
adopted  them! 

She,  who  would  not  be  handled,  patted  even,  I  have 
seen,  Her  claws  full  of  bark,  hauled  from  a  tree  by  her 

67 


58  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

tail  and  carried  limply,  head  downwards,  under  the  arm 
of  the  youngest  son;  or  rolling  on  her  back  in  the  gravel, 
ecstatically  appreciative  of  Mrs.  Next  Door's  thimble  under 
her  ear.  She  sat  about  on  their  shoulders,  their  laps, 
wherever  she  could  get :  caught  their  mice,  drank  their  skim 
milk,  allowed  them  to  wash  her  in  one  bath  with  the 
terrier  pup.  Why?  Heaven  knows!  She  liked  them. 
They  were  her  sort.  Yet  I  am  sure  we  were  a  much  nicer 
family  than  the  people  next  door. 

She  never  quite  forgot  us :  was  even,  as  if  in  apology,  a 
shade  more  friendly  than  before.  For  a  long  time,  in- 
deed, she  paid  a  daily  call  of  courtesy,  sitting  a  dignified 
half-hour  on  what  had  been  her  chair,  before  retiring 
again  to  her  spiritual  home;  but  one  always  felt  that  she 
did  it  as  a  matter  of  duty.  And  when  the  Next  Doors 
moved  on,  her  visits  ceased.  We  missed  her,  just  a  little, 
and  made  half-hearted  inquiries,  but  there  it  ended.  The 
Next  Doors  must  have  taken  her  with  them.  At  any  rate 
we  never  set  eyes  on  Topaz  again. 

All  this  I  tell  you  because  I  am  sure  that  what  I  feel 
about  Topaz  is  what  Aunt  Adela  felt  about  Laura  and  the 
Clouds.  Laura,  you  see,  adopted  the  Clouds.  From  the 
day  when  Justin  carried  her  home  to  his  mother,  to  the 
end  at  least  of  this  story,  she  was  theirs,  body  and  soul, 
clinging  to  them,  shyly,  unobtrusively,  yet  with  the  deli- 
cate tenacity  of  a  white  rose-bush  adopting  a  south  wall. 

Aunt  Adela  did  not,  could  not,  object.  Aunt  Adela,  who 
lived  wholeheartedly  for  her  neighbours  and  their  more 
intimate  affairs,  Aunt  Adela,  who  liked  to  be  asked  to 
tete-a-tete  tea,  or  to  meet  her  hostess's  dearest  friends,  had 
never  overcome  a  certain  aloofness  that  distinguished  Mrs. 
Cloud  and  made  her  a  desirable  acquaintance.  Aunt 
Adela 's  snobbery  was  harmless  enough.  To  do  her  justice, 
money  meant  nothing  to  her,  poor  as  she  was ;  but  she  had 
her  weakness  for  what  she  called  "the  best  people."  And 
Mrs.  Cloud,  with  her  gentle  interest  in  your  affairs,  and 
her  placid  and  implacable  reserve  about  her  own,  Mrs. 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  59 

Cloud,  with  her  son  at  college  and  her  husband  on  the 
church  wall,  and  a  bishop  burgeoning  in  the  family  tree, 
Mrs.  Cloud  belonged,  Aunt  Adela  felt  in  her  bones,  to  the 
very  best  people. 

Aunt  Adela,  then,  was  flattered  at  Mrs.  Cloud's  ap- 
proval of  Aunt  Adela 's  niece,  put  no  difficulties  in  Laura's 
way,  and,  after  a  time,  grew  tired  of  questioning  her  as  to 
how  she  got  on  with  Mrs.  Cloud,  how  she  employed  the 
regularly  lengthening  hours  she  spent  at  the  Priory.  Yet, 
under  her  acquiescence,  and  without  any  special  affection 
for  Laura,  she  resented  Laura's  stubborn  preference  for 
Mrs.  Cloud  in  exactly  the  fashion  that  I  resented  the  de- 
fection of  Topaz.  Why  couldn't  Laura  be  contented  at 
home?  After  all,  they  must  be  a  nicer  family  than  the 
Clouds — even  than  the  Clouds! 

Gran 'papa,  by  the  way,  made  no  comment  at  all,  shared 
neither  Aunt  Adela 's  voluble  approval — ''and  Mrs.  Cloud 
has  such  an  Influence ' ' — nor  her  secret  acerbity.  Possibly 
he  was  uninterested — possibly  he  was  not  left  out  in  the 
cold.  Laura  knew  her  way  to  Gran 'papa's  room.  And 
Gran  'papa,  between  his  care  of  his  grand-daughter 's  gram- 
mar and  his  correction  of  her  pronunciation  and  enunci- 
ation— he  was  never  satisfied  with  either — may  yet  have 
had  time  to  be  thrilled  by  the  news  that  Mrs.  Cloud  had 
sent  Justin  a  hamper,  that  Laura  had  helped  her  to  pack 
it  and  had  dug  up  her  own  radish  from  her  own  garden 
to  put  in,  because  Mrs.  Cloud  had  said  that  Justin  simply 
loved — liked,  Gran 'papa — Justin  simply  liked  radishes! 
and  had  Gran 'papa  read  The  Tiger  of  Mysore — Henty? 
It  was  Justin's  book,  only  one  of  the  covers  was  gone,  and 
Mrs.  Cloud  had  said  that  Justin  had  said  she  might  have 
it.  She  would  lend  it  to  Gran 'papa  if  he  liked.  A  per- 
fectly ripping — a  most  extremely  interesting  book. 

Now  why  should  not  Laura  have  imparted  these  and 
kindred  matters  to  Aunt  Adela — questioning,  quiveringly 
interested  Aunt  Adela  ?  "When  Papa  was  so  unsympathetic 
with  children.  .  .  .  The  twins,  for  instance.  .  .  .  The  twins 


60  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

had  no  link  with  him  at  all  beyond  the  weekly  threepen- 
nies  .  .  .  Aunt  Adela  could  not  make  it  out.  Or,  for  that 
matter,  what  dear  Mrs.  Cloud  saw  in  Laura.  .  .  . 

Little  enough,  I  should  think,  at  first,  save  Justin's 
vouchsafed  interest.  Justin,  who  was  so  absorbed  by 
things  that  he  seldom  had  time  for  people,  had  not  for- 
gotten Laura,  had  actually  inquired  after  the  child,  twice, 
in  letters,  had  carried  her  off,  dumb  with  delight,  on  his 
next  Sunday  at  home,  to  spend  the  afternoon  in  his  den. 
Justin  had  talked:  Mrs.  Cloud  had  heard  the  rumble  of 
his  deep  voice  all  the  afternoon.  Mrs.  Cloud  had  a  smile 
and  a  thanksgiving  for  her  good  son,  tender  as  a  girl  to 
acknowledged  pain  or  need. 

Yet,  to  me,  it  seems  nevertheless  certain  that  Laura  had, 
from  the  first,  the  trick  of  keeping  him  amused.  From  the 
first,  too,  she  must  have  had  her  shepherding  way  with  him 
and  his  belongings ;  for  Mrs.  Cloud,  announcing  tea,  hardly 
recognized  Justin's  den — Justin's  housemaid-proof  den. 
Laura  would  appear  to  have  tidied  it.  At  any  rate,  how- 
ever they  had  passed  their  afternoon,  they  came  down  to 
dripping  cake  and  muffins  at  last,  hungry  and  very  well 
pleased  with  each  other. 

Justin  told  his  mother  that  Laura  was  a  ripping  little 
kid. 

What  Laura  told  the  Memory  who  still  came  to  her  in 
the  night-time,  who  knows?  Yet  that  that  yearning 
shadow  was  eased,  appeased,  by  what  it  heard,  I  do  be- 
lieve; because,  as  the  months  sped,  its  anxious  visits  les- 
sened and  grew  rare,  until,  at  last,  it  came  no  more  to  a 
Laura  grown  happy  again. 

Justin,  of  course,  was  seldom  at  home,  but  you  can  see, 
with  his  open  and  unusual  approval  working  upon  Mrs. 
Cloud's  already  aroused  motherliness,  how  swift  and  steady 
would  be  her  notice  of  Laura.  It  was  in  her  nature  to  be 
kind,  pitiful,  easy.  Her  cheerful  heart  was  like  her  cheer- 
ful house,  with  window-wide  rooms,  white  and  golden  and 
domestic,  filled  with  sunshine  and  flowers,  with  firelight 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  61 

and  singing  birds  and  kittens  that  never  grew  up.  She  had 
room  in  both  for  a  child's  voice  and  a  child's  ways,  the 
more,  perhaps,  since  the  reserve  her  son  shared  would  not, 
though  she  were  lonely  with  Justin  away,  let  her  say 
easily  to  a  stranger,  "Come  in — be  at  home!"  But  a 
child  she  could  welcome. 

Laura,  on  her  side,  had  no  hesitations  whatever.  Driven 
by  the  needs  of  her  nature,  shy  Laura,  timid,  tentative 
Laura,  could,  like  any  starved  sparrow,  be  insistent  upon 
Mrs.  Cloud's  threshold,  cheeping  hopefully  till  she  was  ac- 
corded entry-right,  her  crumbs,  and  a  corner  in  the  warm. 
Once  in,  once  accepted,  she  was  quiet.  Too  quiet  .  .  . 
thought  Mrs.  Cloud,  yet  a  good  little  soul.  .  .  .  She  was 
dazed,  I  dare  say,  in  those  first  months,  by  her  better  for- 
tune :  was  still  eyeing  life  with  meek  vigilance,  as  a  dog  eyes 
you  when  you  have  stumbled  on  its  paw.  Also,  though  she 
clung  to  Justin's  mother,  she  had  no  special  spontaneous 
affection  for  Mrs.  Cloud,  as  Mrs.  Cloud  who  was  ready 
enough  to  pet  her,  soon  realized.  Grateful  she  was,  but 
elusive  too,  cold,  evading  kisses,  unresponsive  when  you 
took  her  on  your  knee,  limply  angular  against  a  motherly 
breast.  It  was  not  Mrs.  Cloud  who  had  picked  her  up 
out  of  a  haystack — out  of  a  hell.  .  .  . 

But,  received  discreetly  as  one  representing  a  federate 
state,  allowed  to  hunch  by  the  hour  (but  on  an  individual 
footstool)  at  Mrs.  Cloud's  feet,  hugging  her  own  knees, 
elaborating  her  own  views  of  life  and  enquiring  with  lur- 
ing, alluring  interest  into  those  of  her  hostess,  Laura  could 
be  singularly  companionable  in  an  elderly  and  impersonal 
fashion  that  made  Justin  laugh  and  chaff  them  both  when 
he  caught  them  at  their  gossiping,  but  which  had  the  un- 
doubted effect  of  making  Mrs.  Cloud  confidential. 

'  Confidential '  is  a  strange  word  to  link  with  Mrs.  Cloud, 
who  did  not,  originally  because  she  would  not  (but  'would' 
had  long  ago  hardened  into  'could')  expand  or  respond 
to  any  one  save  Justin :  and  how  often,  how  intimately  even 
to  him,  had  she  spoken  of  what  lay  closest  to  her  heart? 


62  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

closer,  more  desperately  dear  than  Justin,  even  than 
Justin;  for  women  will  always  wonder  how  far  the  God- 
appointed  seed  consoles  for  Abel  dead  and  Cain  a  fugitive. 
What  should  Justin  know,  beyond  their  names,  of  the  two 
little  girls  who  died,  and  of  the  first-born,  John,  the 
legendary  brother,  so  like  and  so  unlike  himself,  John  Cloud 
the  ne'er-do-weel,  swallowed  up  years  since  by  the  conti- 
nent that  gives  new  lamps  for  old  ? 

But  watch  Mrs.  Cloud's  face  (or,  if  you  love  her  a  little, 
do  not  watch)  when  Brackenhurst  stirs  its  tea,  and 
doubles  up  its  thin  bread-and-butter,  and  talks,  with  its  air 
of  bewildered  but  unshakable  patronage,  of  America. 

The  grocer,  bankrupt  since  Brackenhurst 's  invasion  by 
the  smart,  blue-painted  Co-operative  Stores  (margarine 
given  in  with  every  pound  of  butter)  poor  Pringleson  the 
grocer  is  doing  very  well  out  there.  Has  built  a  house  and 
sent  home  for  Mrs.  Pringleson. 

"Ah,  well — one  knows  how  they  want  men!"  says 
Brackenhurst  sagely.  "Actually  pay  emigrants  to  come. 
Or  is  that  New  Zealand?  And  that  girl  from  the 
'Plough'!"  Brackenhurst  coughs.  "Yes,  doing  splen- 
didly !  Ah,  well,  they  want  servants  so  out  there,  you  see ! 
An  absolute  famine!  Put  up  with  anything — anything! 
Extraordinary!  No  caps!  Bicycles  provided!  Evenings 
out!  And  wages!  Incredible!" 

Brackenhurst,  with  an  eye  on  its  own  dragooned  and 
aproned  treasure,  hesitates  between  envy  of  a  land  that 
can  afford  such  wages  and  concede  such  privileges,  and  a 
preference  for  its  own  England  of  modest  incomes  and  at- 
tendant uniforms.  And  volunteers  news  of  a  nephew's 
friend  who  was  in  the  rush  of  'ninety-six,  an  eulogy  of  Ella 
Wheeler  Wilcox  and  a  recipe  for  American  rarebit,  and  so 
to  Mrs.  Beeton  and  home  waters  again. 

But  we  watch  the  two  bright  spots  of  colour  fade  again 
in  Mrs.  Cloud's  cheeks,  and  her  hand  relax  that  held  so 
tightly  the  arm  of  the  chair,  while  with  the  other  she  lifts 
her  tea-cup  and  drinks,  a  little  thirstily,  and  are  glad 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  63 

that  Brackenhurst  is  less  observant  than  you  or  I  should 
be,  of  its  dear  Mrs.  Cloud. 

And  yet,  incredible  as  it  may  seem,  it  was  not  long  before 
Laura  knew  all  about  John,  and  Lettiee,  and  little  Mary- 
Rosalind.  The  big  fat  family  albums,  with  their  stamped, 
stuffed  leathern  covers  and  biblical  clasps,  were  not  to  be 
kept  from  Laura,  reverent  yet  intrigued:  and  once  fairly 
open  on  Mrs.  Cloud's  lap  at  a  litle  girl  in  pantalettes  and 
an  urchin  that  Laura  at  first  glance  had  mistaken  for 
Justin,  there  would  be  stories. 

Laura  would  ground-bait  artfully. 

"Was  Justin  ever  naughty  when  he  was  little,  Mrs. 
Cloud?" 

Mrs.  Cloud  would  affect  forgetfulness. 

"Oh,  not  more  than  other  children,  I  suppose.  Aren't 
your  little  brothers  ever  naughty?" 

Laura  would  consider. 

"Oh,  yes.  Silly  naughty.  But  not  exciting.  Not  like 
Justin  when  he  threw  the  porridge  at  Miss  Beamish." 
Her  eyes  gleamed  admiration.  "And  that  day,  you  know, 
at  the  photographer's — when  he  was  so  cross.  The  pic- 
ture's here." 

' '  That  was  John, ' '  said  Mrs.  Cloud  quickly. 

' '  Oh  ?  ? "  Laura  could  put  a  good  deal  into  her  exclama- 
tions. "Oh???" 

The  knitting  needles  would  slacken  for  long  minutes, 
till  at  last,  with  a  click  and  a  gleam,  caught  from  the  fire  or 
from  Mrs.  Cloud's  eyes,  hands  and  voice  would  pick  up 
the  thread. 

"I'm  afraid  he  was  a  bad  boy,  too.     I  remember " 

Then  Laura  would  give  a  sigh  of  achievement  and  settle 
down  to  listen. 

But  besides  the  stories,  the  interminable  stories  that  a 
child  loves,  of  other  little  boys  and  girls,  there  was  endless 
amusement  in  the  grown-ups,  the  drooping  ladies  and  Mr. 
Mantalini  gentlemen,  the  family  groups  with  pig-tailed 
children,  the  crinolines  and  the  bustles,  the  whiskers  and 


64  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

the  ringlets,  and  the  pork-pie  hats  of  all  the  aunts  and 
uncles  and  cousins  and  grandfathers  and  great-grand- 
mothers of  Justin.  It  was  very  interesting:  and  she 
learned  to  refer  to  them  with  an  air  of  intimate  recollection 
that  staggered  Justin  one  day,  when,  sprawling  by  the  fire 
with  a  college  friend  and  The  Scarlet  Pimpernel,  he  told  a 
story,  quite  a  good  story,  of  an  emigre  who  had  married  a 
great-aunt  or  other  of  his  own. 

A  voice  from  the  window-seat  at  once  reproached  him. 

"Not  your  great-aunt,  Justin,  your  mother's  great-aunt, 
and  it  was  her  great-aunt  Jane  Eleanor,  not  her  great-aunt 
Emily." 

Justin  jumped. 

Laura — as  usual  she  was  lying  flat,  her  chin  in  her  fists, 
her  heels  in  the  air — turned  a  page.  She  was  no  longer 
concerned.  She  had  done  her  duty,  and  the  Arabian  Nights 
was  more  than  absorbing. 

"Oh,  it  was,  was  it?"  said  Justin.  And  then,  recover- 
ing, "Shut  up,  Laura.  It's  not  your  Aunt  Emily!" 

She  lifted  eyes  clouded  with  her  story. 

"Eleanor — not  Emily,"  she  corrected  patiently. 
"Great-aunt  Emily  married  Great-uncle  Michael,  and  it's 
their  little  boy  you  were  so  like  when  you  were  little.  All 
except  the  nose." 

The  friend  chuckled. 

"Where  did  you  get  all  this  from?"  demanded  Justin, 
overborne  by  the  evidence. 

"I  don't  know — your  mother  told  me,"  said  Laura 
vaguely.  Then,  without  a  change  of  tone — "Justin,  would 
you  have  married  Haiatalnefous,  as  well  as  the  Princess  of 
China  if  you'd  been  Camaralzaman?" 

"Certainly  not,"  said  Justin  virtuously,  and  the  friend 
went  off  into  a  sudden  fit  of  laughter. 

"Because  I  don't  think  it  was  fair,"  said  Laura  with  in- 
tense conviction. 


CHAPTER  IX 

AT  half -past  ten  years  old,  Laura  went  to  school  and  then 
came  home  again,  with  the  simple  directness  of  the  King 
of  France. 

It  was  her  own  fault,  as  she  candidly  admitted  to  herself 
— her  own,  Justin's  a  little,  still  more  Mr.  Kipling's,  but 
mainly  and  responsibly,  her  own.  You  observe  that  she 
did  not  blame  Aunt  Adela  at  all.  She  was  always  a  just 
child. 

And  yet,  of  course,  it  was  Aunt  Adela  who  had  been  anx- 
ious for  at  least  a  year  that  Laura  should  go  to  school,  who 
had  said  so,  plaintively,  once  to  Papa,  who  did  not  com- 
mit himself,  and  incessantly  to  Brackenhurst ;  for  board- 
ing schools  had  a  Refining  Influence  .  .  .  and  Compan- 
ionship, you  know  .  .  .  and  she  had  a  bosom  friend,  a 
Miss  Massingberd,  such  an  Intellectual  woman,  who  had 
recently  opened  a  school  and  needed  pupils.  .  .  . 

Upon  the  horns  of  that  altar  Aunt  Adela  intended  that 
Laura,  entirely  for  her  own  good,  should  be  offered  up; 
for  Aunt  Adela  was  indefatigably  benevolent  at  second 
hand.  She  used  to  make  opportunity  for  little  chats  with 
Laura,  and  paint  flamboyant  pictures  of  the  delights  that 
awaited  her  if  she  would  only  tell  Gran 'papa  that  she 
should  like  to  go  to  school.  (Already  the  household  was 
finding  Laura  a  convenient  mediator.)  Laura  listened 
politely,  with  her  head  on  one  side,  like  a  wary  robin. 
But  she,  too,  did  not  commit  herself. 

One  unlucky  morning,  however,  fate  overtook  her. 
She  was  engaged  at  the  time  in  the  particularly  fascinat- 
ing occupation  of  tidying  Mrs.  Cloud's  wardrobe  drawers. 
If  I  were  Laura,  I  could  write  a  poem  on  Mrs.  Cloud's 
wardrobe,  big  as  a  little  house,  brown  and  grained  and 

65 


66  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

polished  like  a  horse-chestnut  or  a  ha'penny  bun,  with  its 
clinking  handles  and  the  long  looking-glass  door,  which,  as 
it  swung  open,  reflected  in  the  mantel-glass  opposite  your 
own  side  face,  unfamiliar,  gratifying.  It  had  dark  shelves 
that  ran  up  like  ladder-rungs  to  the  ceiling — but  they 
pulled  out  disconcertingly  if  you  tried  to  climb — and  great 
drawers  in  which  you  could  easily  have  hidden  Prince 
Charlie  (lying  flat  with  blouses  over  him)  what  time  the 
Butcher  and  his  Southrons  clanked  up  the  stairs.  Oh, 
the  long  shelves  and  the  deep  draws  it  had,  all  vaguely 
sweet  with  orris-root  and  lemon-weed,  and  the  piles  of 
smooth  linen  (Laura's  night-dresses  were  flannel,  a  hy- 
gienic brown)  and  the  tiny  scented  bags  that  dropped  from 
them,  tied  up  with  rainbow  ribbons !  And  there  were  boxes 
— Japanese  boxes — each  with  its  special  smell  of  lace  or 
leather,  and  its  name  upon  its  lid  in  golden  handwriting; 
and  a  little  wicker  basket  where  the  dead  gloves  went,  that 
Laura  might  take  for  finger-stalls  or  gardening;  and 
shawls  for  dressing-up,  and  a  feather  fan,  and  a  scarf  from 
India  all  sewn  over  with  silver  and  as  heavy  as  a  tennis 
net,  for  playing  mermaids.  There  was  a  piece-drawer  like 
Mrs.  S.  F.  Robinson's  enchanted  bag;  and  a  carved  comb 
six  inches  high  and  once,  in  a  corner,  candles  and  glass 
balls  from  last  year's  Christmas  tree;  and  little  trinket 
cases  that  Laura  was  allowed  to  open,  and  the  great  jewel 
box  with  the  baize  petticoat  that  was  always  locked  because 
it  had  diamonds  inside  it,  and  Justin's  watch,  and  more 
rings  than  would  go  on  all  Laura's  fingers,  counting 
thumbs. 

The  sea  hath  its  pearls,  and  argosies  unload  in  London 
Town;  but  have  you  ever  tidied  Mrs.  Cloud's  wardrobe? 

Tidying  (she  called  it  tidying!)  this  delectable  wardrobe 
that  day,  what  should  Laura  come  upon  but  a  fat  bundle 
which,  deposited  with  the  dumb  eloquence  of  a  retriever  on 
Mrs.  Cloud's  lap,  was  deprived  of  its  elastic  band  and  dis- 
played to  her  as  a  sheaf  of  reports — Justin 's  reports  at  his 
preparatory  school.  She  was  allowed  to  go  through  them, 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  67 

and  because  she  could  not  help  wheedling  explanations  out 
of  a  particularly  busy  Mrs.  Cloud,  to  read  to  herself  a  few, 
a  very  few,  of  Justin's  letters  home.  Here  was  literature 
indeed !  There  was  Shakespeare,  not  doubt :  there  was  the 
B.  O.  P.  There  was  Louisa  Alcott  and  Sir  Thomas  Malory ; 
but  what  were  such  scribblers  then  to  Laura  reading 
Justin's  letters  home? 

To  top  that  revelation  came  Stalky  and  Co.  for  a  birth- 
day present. 

Naturally  she  dreamed  of  going  to  school  herself.  In 
that  mood  Aunt  Adela  surprised  her,  and,  striking  while 
the  iron  was  hot,  settled  matters  with  her,  with  her  own 
friend,  and  with  Papa,  who  wrote,  in  grim  silence,  the 
necessary  cheques.  He  had  never  approved  of  boarding 
schools  for  his  women-folk.  / 

Neither  did  Laura.  The  door  of  the  prim  drawing-room 
had  not  closed  behind  Aunt  Adela,  she  had  barely  rubbed 
Aunt  Adela 's  farewells  from  her  cheeks,  before  she  had 
realized  that  she  had  been  trapped  again,  that  she  hadn't 
intended  to  go  to  school,  that  she  would  never  meet  Beetle  at 
'The  Laburnums,'  and  that  she  was  stuck  there  for  a  term 
at  least,  because,  when  there  is  a  chance  that  they  may  be 
read  by  Mrs.  Cloud  who  would  tell  Justin,  one  does  not  fill 
one's  letters  home  with  supplications  and  lamentings. 
Justin  never  once  said  that  he  wanted  to  come  back!  .  .  . 
Finally,  she  was  going  to  be  horribly  homesick.  .  .  . 

She  was.  She  was  put  into  the  lowest  class  and  she 
hated  every  one.  Exile,  of  the  body  or  of  the  mind,  always 
roused,  and  always  will  rouse  in  her,  I  think,  a  bitter, 
ardent  devil,  that,  when  she  was  a  child,  was  completely 
beyond  her  comprehension  or  control.  She,  who  was  all 
for  peace  and  pleasantry  and  quiet  life,  found  herself  in- 
volved in  wars  and  rumours  of  wars,  in  quarrels  and  in- 
justice and  defiances,  that  stamped  themselves  heavily, 
like  a  blind  pattern,  upon  a  solid  back-ground  of  nostalgia, 
so  that  she  spent  her  days,  like  any  cat,  fighting  and  dream- 
ing. 


68  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

She  endured  for  a  full  term :  packed,  in  spite  of  protests, 
all  her  property  at  the  end  of  it:  bade  a  polite  and  final 
farewell  to  a  bewildered  head-mistress,  and  then  came  home 
again.  Once  there,  she  refused  to  budge. 

She  needed  a  whipping,  of  course.  Brackenhurst,  deeply 
interested,  urged  it  upon  Aunt  Adela.  But  somehow  it 
was  difficult  to  inflict  upon  the  soft-eyed,  mouse-like 
creature  that  was  Laura — until  you  roused  her.  And 
Laura  never  let  Aunt  Adela  rouse  her  now-a-days,  was  a 
good  little  girl  and  an  obedient,  with  her  Aunt  Adela.  As 
Adela  admitted  to  Brackenhurst,  she  was,  in  daily  life, 
docile  enough.  Aunt  Adela,  who  could  not  understand 
her  contradictions,  never  realized  that  you  might  prune  as 
you  pleased — if  you  left  her  roots  alone. 

But  Laura  had  it  out  with  a  grimly  smiling  grandfather, 
who  did  not  appear  surprised.  He  heard  what  she  had 
to  say,  discussed  the  matter  with  her  as  he  never  did  with 
Adela,  and,  to  every  one's  horror,  let  her  have  her  way. 
Possibly  Laura's  challenge  to  her  aunt — "Why  can't 
Gran 'papa  teach  me?  He  knows  tons  more  than  Miss 
Massingberd ' ' — tickled  him. 

At  any  rate  Laura  stayed  at  home,  and  her  education,  as 
it  achieved  itself  between  the  two  of  them,  with  occasional 
help  from  Justin,  was,  if  irregular,  at  least  essentially  satis- 
fying. She  was,  of  course,  if  you  contrast  her  provision 
with  the  full  fare  of  the  schools,  fed  and  clad  but  scantily ; 
but  her  scraps  fell  at  least  from  ambrosial  tables  and  her 
rags  were  cloth-of-golden.  And  she  throve.  That  is  cer- 
tain. 

Aunt  Adela  *s  next  move,  naturally,  was  to  demand  a 
governess.  But  even  her  assiduity  had  not  been  able  to  dis- 
cover any  one  whom  Gran 'papa  could  endure  for  more 
than  a  month.  A  week  was  usually  enough  for  them  both. 
With  visitors,  half-hour  visitors,  he  found  it  hard  enough 
to  be  uncritical;  but  to  have  a  stranger,  and  a  feminine 
stranger  at  that,  with  an  inevitable  mannerism  to  jar  his 
fidgety  niceness,  definitely  established  in  his  household, 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  69 

drove  him  into  a  fever  of  nervous  irritation.  His  patient 
daughter  did  her  best,  but  it  required  more  nerve  than  she 
possessed  to  say,  however  sweetly,  to  an  efficient  young 
woman  with  certificates  and  a  silk  petticoat :  ' '  Oh,  by  the 
way,  Miss — er — ,  you  don't  blow  your  nose  at  meals,  do 
you?"  and  after  the  rout  of  Miss  Runciman  with  her 
nervous  little  giggle,  of  Miss  Sandys  who  would  talk  to 
Papa  while  he  was  eating,  and  of  Miss  Jenkins  who  used 
slang  and  dropped  her  g's,  Aunt  Adela  decided  that  an 
English  girl  without  an  affectation  was  beyond  discovery, 
and  that  Papa  must  look  after  Laura's  education  by  him- 
self. Can  you  hear  her  s&tto-voee  indignation?  Can  you 
see  her  washing  her  long,  twitching  hands  of  the  whole 
affair?  There  is  no  doubt  but  that  Papa  was  exceedingly 
trying.  All  Brackenhurst  knew  it  and  pitied  the  poor 
lady.  But  neither  Brackenhurst  nor  she  herself  ever  had 
the  moral  courage  to  tell  him  so. 

Laura,  however,  was  none  the  worse  off.  She  could  read 
and  write,  had  the  run  of  two  houses  in  the  matter  of 
books,  and  Justin — never  again  so  divinely  discerning — 
Justin  had  given  her  a  paint-box.  Thus  equipped,  she  was 
left  to  potter  at  her  own  pace  along  the  road  to  knowledge 
of  those  inner  and  outer  worlds  in  which,  for  the  next  fifty 
years  or  so,  she  was  to  stage  her  eternal  comedy  of  exist- 
ence. 

And  she  enjoyed  herself.  At  ten — twelve — fourteen — 
she  enjoyed  herself,  aesthetically  at  least,  as  keenly  and 
painfully  as  at  any  later  period,  blissfully  absorbed  in 
words  and  colours  and  sounds,  in  discovering  that  the  sky 
is  awfully  blue  and  the  earth  so  green,  so  green;  but  that 
if  she  said  big  words  to  herself  from  Gran 'papa's  dic- 
tionary, 'azure,'  'translucent,'  'emerald,'  ' lapis-lazuli, ' 
sky  and  earth  would  deepen  and  glow  till  she  was  dazzled, 
and  that,  although  she  could  not  get  what  she  saw  on  to 
paper,  juicy  as  Winsor  and  Newtons  were,  at  least  she 
could  always  try.  And  there  the  sable  paint-brush  was 
certainly  a  help,  though  expensive! 


70  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

And  though  in  these,  as  in  all  her  adventures,  she  was 
unescorted,  she  was  not  lonely.  She  was  always  aware 
that  there  were  guiding  hands  to  right  and  left  of  her  if  she 
chose  to  stretch  out  her  own.  Hands,  indeed,  that  were 
inclined  to  tug  in  opposite  directions,  and  so,  perhaps,  held 
her  the  steadier  between  extreme  and  extreme;  for  an  in- 
telligent young  man  convinced  that  he  understands  every- 
thing, and  a  wise  old  one,  still  more  sure  that  he  knows 
nothing,  are  no  bad  teachers  for  an  imaginative  child, 
who  worships  the  one  and  honours  the  others. 

Justin,  because  she  saw  less  of  him ;  because  he  was  young ; 
because  he  made  her  laugh;  because  he  forgot  her  for 
months  and  then  remembered  her  again;  because  he  let 
her  play  in  his  room  and  learn  her  geography  from  his 
stamp  album,  and  put  her  in  charge,  in  his  absence,  of  his 
innumerable  collections;  because  he  had  white  teeth  and 
delightful  crinkles  at  the  corners  of  his  eyes  when  he  put 
back  his  head  and  laughed  at  her ;  because,  in  short,  he  was 
God — Justin,  naturally,  influenced  her  development  more 
than  old  Mr.  Valentine,  though  he,  in  his  cold  way,  was 
less  unconscious  of  responsibility  than  Aunt  Adela  would 
have  you  believe.  Yet  the  amazing,  amusing  contrast  in 
the  two  men's  attitudes  to  life  and  Books  (the  choice  of 
capital  is  Laura's)  developed  in  her,  all  unconsciously,  a 
sense  of  humour,  which  is  a  sense  of  proportion,  that  never 
withered,  though  she  is  to  starve  it  ruthlessly  in  the  years 
that  are  labelled  discreet. 

When,  for  instance,  Gran 'papa's  grudging  and  suspicious 
recognition  of  those  hot-bloods  Mr.  Tennyson  and  Mr. 
Dickens,  was  compared  in  her  alert  mind  with  Justin's 
yawning  admission  that  he  really  must  wade  through  'em 
all  some  day,  she  would  give  a  little  gurgle  of  laughter  all 
to  herself,  though  she  did  not  really  know  why.  But  she 
was  sure  her  mother  would  have  laughed  too  in  that  half- 
forgotten  fascinating  way  of  hers  and  have  made  the 
funniness  obvious  to  Laura.  Laura  was  sure  of  that. 
Even  Sam  Weller  was  not  quite  so  funny  when  you  met 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  71 

him  by  yourself — but  when  Mother  had  read  it  aloud — 
oh,  did  the  twins  remember?  But  the  twins  never  re- 
membered anything.  Never  remembered,  never  cared  for 
anything  but  trains,  and  rigging  up  telephones  in  the 
cherry  trees,  and  catapulting  robins,  never  wanted  Laura 
except  at  night  when  there  were  stories  to  be  told,  or  when 
they  quarrelled  with  each  other  in  the  day-time.  And  cer- 
tainly never  noticed  much  difference  between  the  edition  of 
Alice  that  Gran 'papa  produced  from  a  corner  of  his  book- 
shelf one  birthday  and  the  parcel  from  Justin  by  the  post, 
with  the  same  familiar  letterpress  and  most  unfamiliar 
drawings  by  a  certain  sacrilegious  Mr.  Rackham.  There 
again  Gran 'papa's  indignation,  though  she  agreed  with 
him,  struck  her  as  humorous.  In  short,  she  was  beginning, 
what  with  one  mentor  and  the  other,  to  form  a  judgment 
of  her  own,  not  to  mention  a  morality.  The  fundamental 
'shalt  nots,'  built  up  secretly,  like  coral  rocks,  in  her  child- 
ish deeps,  were,  in  the  lull  that  precedes  the  teens,  begin- 
ning to  show  starkly  above  water. 

"Never,  never  cry. 

"It's  nice  to  be  in  the  right,  but  it  makes  them  squash 
you. 

"Never  argue  with  Gran 'papa. 

"Never  remind  Justin  of  what  he  said  last  holidays. 

' '  Never  say  you  're  tired. ' ' 

In  matters  of  art,  too,  though  she  enjoyed  trying  to  look 
through  both  ends  of  her  human  opera-glasses  at  once,  she 
had  got  into  a  habit  (in  self-defence,  as  it  it  were)  of 
using  her  own  eyes  in  daily  life.  Glasses  were  a  revelation, 
of  course,  either  end  of  them.  Justin's  display  of  remote, 
romantic  figures  with  curvy  throats  who  really  lived,  in 
London,  and  waved  Yellow  Backs  (a  horrid  colour)  and 
sniffed  at  Grandpapa's  Michael  Angelo  because  he  had  a 
broken  nose  and  couldn't  sniff  back,  was  as  exciting  as  it 
was  bewildering;  but  Gran 'papa's  method  of  magnifying, 
clarifying  the  old-fashioned  deities  of  an  art  dictionary 
into  solid,  satisfactory  men  and  women,  had  also  its  charm 


72  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

for  her.  And  the  woman  in  her,  that  must  dislike  change 
of  any  kind,  found  Gran 'papa  the  more  dependable. 
Justin  had  such  different  interests  each  holidays  (he  left 
delicious  books  behind  him  when  he  went  back  to  college) 
that  it  was  difficult  to  keep  up;  but  Gran 'papa  would,  on 
any  given  evening,  be  found  reading  the  Nodes  Ambro- 
sianae  with  the  same  absorption  as  on  any  previous  evening 
of  all  Laura's  years:  Gran 'papa  could  be  trusted  to  say 
—"Pretty  enough,  pretty  enough — but  what  about  feet? 
Hands  and  feet,  my  dear,  hands  and  feet,  if  you  want  to 
learn  to  draw,"  when  he  was  shown  the  latest  'head' 
(there  were  half  a  dozen  battered  casts  for  the  borrowing — 
Caesar,  Clytie,  Antinous — in  the  village  schools)  upon 
which  Laura  had  spent  herself  and  her  time  and  her  beau- 
tiful fourpenny  indiarubber. 

Yes — Gran 'papa  was  dependable.  He  damped  her,  but 
she  was  already  intelligent  enough  to  enjoy  the  tingle  of 
his  cold  water,  and,  always  protesting,  to  know  him  in  the 
right.  Yet  how  she  grudged  him  his  Tightness!  At 
twelve  years  old  there  is  not  much  charm  in  a  plaster  cast 
of  a  foot  or  in  a  muscular  gentleman  with  his  skin  off, 
when  Clytie,  half  enchanted,  smiles  from  her  petals,  and 
you  have  made  up  your  mind  to  do  the  most  beautiful  copy 
of  her  that  the  world  has  ever  seen  by  lunch-time,  only 
coloured,  pale  pink  Clytie  and  orange  sunflower,  and  send 
it  in  to  the  Academy  and  get  made  an  R.A.  like  Angelica 
Kaufmann,  who  wasn't  even  English,  as  a  little  surprise 
for  Justin. 

She  was  always,  in  secret,  fantastically  ambitious,  but 
her  R.A.  was  one  cobweb  with  her  Helen  of  Troyship  (you 
should  have  seen  Laura  going  straight  to  headquarters — 
Olympus — and  talking  out  the  whole  wretched  business  with 
Zeus)  or  with  the  regency  she  undertook  after  delivering 
up  Elizabeth  (in  chains)  to  Mary  Queen  of  Scots,  rein- 
stated and  regal  and  happily  converted  to  Protestantism 
entirely  through  Laura's  indefatigable  personal  exertions. 
For  Laura,  to  Aunt  Adela's  edified  relief,  was  whole 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  73 

heartedly  Anglican,  in  spite  of  having  to  learn  collects. 
She  did  not  explain,  if  she  knew  it,  that  church  was  a  per- 
petual joy  because  it  had  three  stained-glass  windows  with 
crimson  figures,  black  crimson  like  the  darkest  carnations 
in  the  big  border,  or  Gran 'papa's  port,  a  crimson  to  make 
a  small  girl  squirm  with  inexplicable  pleasure:  And  be- 
cause she  could  sit  there  and  plan  out  the  frescoes  she 
would  one  day,  when  she  was  grown-up  and  an  R.A.,  paint 
all  over  the  white-washed  walls  and  up  into  the  barred 
ceiling,  being  conveyed  thither  nightly  by  the  Archangel 
Raphael,  who  used  to  paint  pictures  too,  in  Rome,  before 
he  was  made  a  seraph,  and  so  would  naturally  be  interested. 
The  congregation,  of  course,  were  to  be  kept  in  ignorance 
of  the  artist  and  a  weekly  increasing  amazement  until  it 
was  finished.  All  but  Justin.  She  would  simply  have  to 
tell  Justin.  .  .  . 

That  characteristic  thought  would  be  realized  in  char- 
acteristic fashion.  She  was  always  dying  to  talk  to  him, 
and  there  was  never  any  time;  for  Justin  even  when  not 
enclouded  in  a  silence  that  might  not  be  broken,  a  silence 
which  always  made  Laura,  quite  unnecessarily,  feel  rebuked, 
must  still  be  considered,  at  any  rate  in  his  twenties,  to  have 
enjoyed  life  most  in  monologue.  So  Laura,  obedient  to  the 
latest  addition  to  her  Codex  Justinianus,  "Never  worry 
him  to  talk,"  evolved  a  system  of  imaginary  conversations 
which  more  or  less  satisfied  her.  She  invented  a  Justin  of 
her  own,  a  Justin  identical  in  speech  and  manner  and  ap- 
pearance, a  Justin  who  accompanied  her  wherever  she 
went,  into  whose  sympathetic  ear  she  poured,  with  a  sort 
of  passionate  vivacity,  every  thought  and  wish  and  fear 
and  marvel  of  her  developing  mind. 

It  was  curious  to  catch  her  unawares,  to  see  her  trotting 
down  a  garden  path,  obviously  absorbed  in  a  discussion  that 
required  nods  and  laughter  and  expressive  hands,  and  little 
quick,  questioning,  upward  glances,  while  she  endeavoured 
in  vain  to  keep  step  with  the  long  stride  of  an  Invisible. 

Intercourse  with  this  Invisible  who  to  Laura  was  one 


74  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

with — was,  indeed,  the  real  Justin,  was  so  satisfying  that 
when  he  arrived  in  the  flesh  for  his  holidays,  she  was  able 
to  be  satisfactory  in  her  turn,  to  exist  demurely  as  no  more 
than  a  domestic  pet,  with  a  trick  of  loosening  his  tongue 
for  him  and  the  still  more  stimulating  habit  of  listening 
in  intelligent  admiration  while  it  wagged. 

She  was  quaintly  accustomed,  in  the  first  half-hour  of 
reunion,  to  a  sensation  of  depression,  to  be  chilled,  startled 
into  faint,  disloyal  protest — "But — but  this  isn't  Justin! 
I  forgot  he  was  like  this."  And  then  she  would  round  in- 
dignantly upon  herself —  "Anyhow  I  like  him  this  way." 
But  in  a  day  or  two  ideal  and  real  would  have  more  or 
less  melted  into  one  again,  obstinate  discrepancies  being  ex- 
plained away  by  Laura  airily  enough — "It's  because  I'm 
not  grown-up."  Her  child's  faith  in  that  panacea  was 
almost  as  strong  as  her  faith  in  Justin.  Yet  that  last 
would  be  sorely  tried  upon  occasion.  Their  differences, 
when  they  occurred,  were  catastrophic — very  funny  to 
watch.  There  is  the  old  simile  of  the  Skye  and  the  mastiff : 
or  imagine,  if  you  like,  Bottom  in  the  Bower,  and  Titania 
nearly  frantic  with  him  for  not  knowing  (there's  the  trou- 
ble— she  would  not  mind  nearly  so  much  if  it  were  pure 
wickedness,  done  a-purpose)  but  for  not  knowing  that  he 
had  just  sat  down  so  heavily  upon  a  spread  of  cowslips 
that  there  is  little  chance  of  a  single  gold-coated  pensioner 
being  left  alive  when  he  gets  up  again.  Not  that  it  is  fair 
to  compare  Justin  with  Bottom.  Justin,  even  in  the  twen- 
ties, was  not  in  the  least  egregious,  only  solid.  He  couldn  't 
help  it,  could  he,  if  he  hadn  't  any  faults,  or  that  his  kindly 
tolerance  of  her  tantrums  could  drive  Laura  into  nothing 
more  or  less  than  a  fuming  replica  of  her  Gran 'papa's 
canary?  (You  never  realized  how  red  Laura's  hair  was 
until  you  saw  her  in  a  passion.)  But,  in  those  encounters, 
there  was  revealed  a  duality  of  temperament,  a  distinction 
in  quality,  a  difference  in  their  grip  of  life,  in  the  mere 
meaning,  sometimes,  that  they  attached  to  the  words  they 
used,  which  made  you  marvel  at  the  attraction  that  they 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  75 

undoubtedly  had  for  each  other.  For  if  Laura  enjoyed 
living  in  his  pocket,  Justin  would  have  been  equally  dis- 
concerted if,  one  fine  day,  he  had  not  found  her  there,  like 
his  loose  money,  and  his  handkerchief,  and  his  pencil-case, 
ready  to  his  hand.  Yet,  as  I  say,  they  sparred.  There 
was  a  clash  of  claims  occasionally.  It  was  not  always  easy 
to  reconcile  ''what  Mother  used  to  do"  with  "Justin 
says. ' ' 

There  were  the  birds'  eggs,  for  instance,  cause  of  the 
most  serious  of  their  differences  and  the  last,  before  she 
became  a  big  girl  and  went  away  to  France  to  be  finished, 
as  Aunt  Adela  phrased  it.  Justin,  as  you  know,  had  the 
magpie  instinct  that  as  pleasantly  infantizes  the  ponderous 
male  as  a  pink  paper  cap  from  a  cracker  the  bald  head  of 
an  uncle  at  a  Christmas  dinner.  He  collected — as  Brack- 
enhurst,  wisely  refusing  to  involve  itself  with  the  objective 
case,  would  explain  to  its  visitor  behind  a  kid  glove  or  a 
convenient  Prayer  Book — 

"Yes — the  Cloud  pew — the  only  son.  Oh,  rolling! 
Oxford — intellectual,  you  know He  collects." 

Brackenhurst  was  right:  he  did  collect.  Collect?  He 
trawled.  There  were  no  half-way  measures.  Interest  him 
in  a  subject,  from  Caesar's  wives  to  Palaeolithic  Toothpicks, 
and  he  had  no  peace  until  he  had  pursued  that  subject, 
netted  it,  stunned  it  with  books  of  reference,  stripped  it  of 
its  robe  of  mystery,  taken  it  to  pieces,  turned  it  inside  out. 
And  finally,  when  it  was  quite  dead  and  done  for,  and  its 
poor  soul  fled,  he  would  hang  up  the  dry  bones  in  triumph 
in  his  den  and  look  round  for  some  one  upon  whom  to  dis- 
charge his  accumulated  information. 

His  mother  was  usually  the  sacrifice — his  mother  in  her 
pretty  parlour,  with  Justin's  Progress  running  round  the 
walls  chronologically,  from  'Grace  Darling'  and  'Hope' 
on  the  orange,  to  Burne- Jones,  'Marriage  a  la  Mode,'  Post- 
Impressionism,  and  Japanese  prints.  She  did  not  really 
mind,  though  he  scraped  the  wall-paper  dreadfully  shift- 
ing things  each  holiday,  and  she  couldn't  see  why  he 


76  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

should  insist  on  moving  'Wedded/  into  Cook's  bedroom, 
though  Cook,  of  course,  was  very  pleased.  But  sometimes, 
especially  in  the  Beardsley  phase,  she  did  wonder,  uneasily, 
if  she  were  being  over-educated. 

Yet  his  changes  of  view  did  not  disturb  her  as  they  dis- 
turbed Laura,  because,  wise  for  all  her  simplicity,  she 
could  always  trace  them  back,  as  Laura  could  not,  to  the 
influence  of  the  moment.  He  had  so  many  acquaintances 
whom  he  called  friends,  he,  who  had  never  yet  felt  the  need 
of  a  friend. 

It  was  always  the  same.  Damon  collected  stamps  for  a 
fortnight,  and  Justin,  Pythias  of  the  hour,  would  go  and 
do  likewise,  and  be  amazed,  a  year  later,  to  find  that  Damon 
showed  no  interest  in  the  three  albums  he  had  contrived  to 
fill  meanwhile,  beyond  merely  and  inaccurately  protesting 
that  thd  beastly  things  always  had  bored  him  anyway. 
Justin  could  not  understand  that.  Through  the  school 
years,  however,  he  had  naturally  attracted  his  like  and  pos- 
sessed, in  consequence,  a  heterogeneous  treasury  of  coins, 
and  cigarette  pictures,  and  birds'  eggs,  and  butterflies,  and 
walking  sticks,  and  medals,  all  correctly  labelled  and  cased, 
and  faithfully  supervised  by  Laura,  into  whose  char  ey 
had  long  ago  been  given,  partly  because  he  was  ge 
fond  of  his  foundling  and  ready  to  humour  her,  p*.  je- 
cause  he  had  been  impressed,  from  the  first,  by  her  neat 
ways  and  dexterous  finger-tips.  He  admired  neatness  and 
precision  as  only  a  thoroughly  untidy  man  can,  and  Laura 
always  knew  where  he  had  left  his  tobacco  pouch. 

He  seldom  entirely  outgrew  his  crazes,  could  always  be 
fired  anew  by  a  rummage.  Cigarette  pictures,  certainly, 
had  definitely  ceased  to  charm  him,  to  the  benefit  of  the 
twins  (Laura,  jealous-eyed,  did  not  in  the  least  appreciate 
the  compliment  of  being  passed  over)  but  he  still  brought 
home  an  occasional  carved  stick,  and  his  fourpenny  bits 
and  George  III  pennies  had  one  by  one  given  up  their  pads 
of  honour  to  quite  rare  and  beautiful  coins.  In  fact,  if  he 
had  not  met  Bellew 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  77 

And  then  it  rained. 

Justin  yawned  and  fidgeted  about  the  room,  and  settled 
down  to  a  book  and  shut  it  up  again  with  a  bang  and  sent 
it  skating  across  the  polished  table.  He  wanted  to  go  out 
.  .  .  He  had  nothing  to  do.  ...  Vacation  was  rather  a  bore 
sometimes.  .  .  .  He  wondered  if  he  should  get  out  his 
stamps.  .  .  .  He  hadn't  looked  at  his  stamps  lately.  .  .  . 
Stamps  were  rather  a  bore.  .  .  .  He  yawned  again. 

"  'Rain,  rain,  go  to  Spain/  "  chanted  Laura,  drumming 
on  the  glass.  She  was  kneeling  on  the  window-seat,  looking 
out  at  the  wall  of  wet  leafage  that  faced  her  across  the  lawn, 
for  the  garden  had  been  hung  on  the  breast  of  deep  woods. 
Mrs.  Cloud  complained  that  the  trees  darkened  the  house 
and  made  it  damp,  and  Justin  would  offer  to  have  them 
thinned,  and  then  Mrs.  Cloud  would  talk  hurriedly  about 
central  heating,  and  Justin  would  laugh  at  her;  because 
his  mother  had  never  yet  been  known  to  sanction  the  de- 
struction of  an  acorn.  She  had  the  characteristic  passion 
of  a  shy  woman  for  trees — for  the  quiet,  deep-rooted  trees 
that  shelter  and  enclose. 

"  'Rain,  rain '  "  began  Laura  again,  energetically. 

3  stow  it,  Laura ! ' '  grunted  Justin. 
J%e  rain,  either  because,  like  any  one  else,  it  hates 
to  ~  its  name  shouted  after  it,  or  because  it  had  been 
at  work  since  seven  and  it  was  now  close  upon  eleven 
o'clock,  did  suddenly  slacken  and  waver  in  a  half-hearted 
and  apologetic  fashion  that  was  most  encouraging. 

"It's  stopping!  It's  going!  *You  see  in  five  minutes! 
I  knew  it  would,  or  the  birds  wouldn't  make  such  a  row. 
Look  at  them  on  the  lawn,  Justin."  She  thrust  her  open 
palms  out  of  the  window  to  feel  the  weather.  It  is  stop- 
ping." 

"Oh,  by  the  way,  that  reminds  me,"  Justin  brightened. 
"Let's  have  a  look  at  the  birds'  eggs.  Haven't  seen  'em 
for  years."  And  he  took  the  key  of  the  fat  little  cabinet 
from  a  reluctant  Laura.  But  he  did  not  notice  her  reluc- 
tance. "Ever  heard  of  Bellew?" 


78  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

"British  Feather  Folk?"  Laura  glanced  up  at  a  row 
of  maroon  volumes. 

''Yes."  Then,  as  he  wrenched  at  a  stiff  drawer:  "I 
say,  you  can't  have  dusted  here  lately." 

She  flushed. 

"I  just  hate "  she  was  beginning,  and  then  she 

checked  herself.  "What  about  him,  Justin?" 

' '  Oh,  I  came  across  him  last  term.  He  was  lecturing.  I 
tell  you,  he's  a  man  and  a  half.  What  he  doesn't  know 
about  birds  would  go  into  a  wren's  egg.  We  pal'd  up, 
rather.  He's  quite  young.  He's  made  me  as  keen  as 
mustard.  Of  course  I  know  nothing  compared  with  him. 
He  spends  his  life  at  it." 

"Taking  birds'  eggs?"  enquired  Laura  frigidly.  "lake 
a  little  boy?" 

But  he  swept  on  unheeding.  He  Had  got  his  half-a- 
dozen  sectioned  trays  pulled  out  and  spread  round  him  on 
the  floor. 

"Not  much  here,"  he  commented  disgustedly.  "Spar- 
rows and  chaffinches  and  robins.  Bellew  would  hoot." 
He  laughed.  "That's  the  right  word.  He's  like  a  bird 
himself,  you  know.  All  the  birds  that  ever  were,  rolled 
into  one.  Cocks  his  eye  at  you  before  he  speaks  and 
ruffles  up  his  hair  like  a  parrot  when  he's  keen.  I  never 
knew  such  a  man.  They  say  South  Kensington  would 
give  its  ears  for  his  collection.  And  he  can  tell  you  every 
blessed  thing  every  blessed  bird  in  England  thinks,  or 
says,  or  does,  from  the  egg  on.  You  should  hear  him  doing 
the  notes.  Hear  that  blackbird  in  the  wood?  You  can't 
tell  whether  that  squawk  is  temper,  or  a  worm  gone  down 
the  wrong  way,  or  a  love  affair.  Nor  can  I.  But  if  you 
got  hold  of  Bellew " 

Laura  sniffed.  She  was  sorry,  but  she  did  not  like  Mr. 
Bellew,  and  she  didn't  care  who  knew  it. 

"It's  squawking  at  Tom.  He's  always  under  that  nest. 
He  got  two  of  the  babies  last  year.  And  it's  not  a  black- 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  79 

bird,  it's  a  garden  warbler.  They  always  build  in  that 
tree." 

"A  garden  warbler?     How  do  you  know?" 

"British  Feather  Folk."  Laura  twinkled.  And  then — 
"Mother  loved  birds." 

He  scanned  his  trays. 

' '  What  luck !  I  haven 't  got  a  garden  warbler.  And  it 's 
stopped  raining.  Come  on  and  show  me  the  nest." 

"Justin,  you're  not  going  to  take  the  eggs?" 

"Well,  what  do  you  think?  I  tell  you  I'm  going  in 
for  it  again — seriously.  Come  on." 

She  made  no  movement.  He  glanced  up  at  her,  sur- 
prised by  her  silence  into  an  observant  glance. 

"What's  up,  Laura?" 

She  turned  a  distressed  face  to  him. 

"If  you  start — Wilfred  and  James  will  think  they  can 
too.  And  it's  been  so  difficult  to  stop  them." 

He  laughed. 

"If  you  think  you  can  stop  kids  taking  eggs " 

"But  they  haven't.  Not  once.  Mother  hated  it  so. 
But  if  you  start " 

"My  good  kid,  where 's  the  harm?     Birds  can't  count." 

She  flamed  up  at  him  in  her  sudden  way. 

' '  Harm  ?  How  would  you  like  having  your  insides  blown 
out  before  you  'd  ever  been  born  ? ' ' 

He  chuckled  and  took  up  his  cap. 

"Oh,  rot!     Come  on!" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Oh,  all  right  then!"  and  he  ran  downstairs  whis- 
tling. 

She  sat  on  the  window-seat,  her  leg  tucked  under  her 
and  watched  him  swing  across  the  lawn  and  dive  into  the 
wood,  and  still  sat  there,  twiddling  the  latch  and  thinking 
things  out.  After  all,  did  it  matter?  .  .  .  Birds  had  so 
many  children.  .  .  .  Birds  couldn't  count.  ...  If  Justin 
began  collecting  eggs  again  he  would  be  in  the  woods  all 


80  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

day.  .  .  .  Would  it — could  it  matter  just  going  with  him? 
...  If  one  didn't  take  eggs  oneself?  .  .  . 

But  the  facts  were  too  clear  for  her.  Birds-nesting  was 
cruel.  .  .  .  Mother  never  let  you.  .  .  .  There  was  nothing 
— nothing  to  be  done.  .  .  . 

Justin  had  been  gone  ages.  .  .  .  She  supposed  he  would 
be  out  all  the  morning  now.  .  .  .  He  had  left  the  room  in 
a  most  dreadfully  untidy  state.  .  .  .  Oh,  well ! 

She  set  to  work. 

It  was  in  a  very  damp  heap,  on  a  very  tidy  floor,  that 
half  an  hour  later  a  tactless  maid  discovered  her.  But 
Laura,  scrambling  to  her  feet,  forestalled  all  comment. 

"I  happen,"  said  Laura,  with  great  dignity,  "to  have 
a  little  bit  of  a  cold.  It's  lunch-time,  isn't  it?  Good- 
bye, Mary.  I'm  going  home  now." 

And  home  she  went. 

Her  guardian  angel  was  very  much  pleased  with  her. 
But  the  devil,  who  happened  to  be  passing,  though  he  of- 
fered his  congratulations,  opined  that  it  would  be  worth 
his  while  to  come  back  that  way  in  a  year  or  two. 


CHAPTER  X 

SHE  was  sixteen  when  she  discovered  (inaccurately)  that 
England  is  an  island,  that  beyond  its  waters  again  there 
is  what,  superficially  if  deceptively,  you  call  land,  and  what 
you  call  people,  busy,  vivid,  quick-tongued,  real  to  them- 
selves, yet  to  you  unconvincing,  phantasmagoric,  like  the 
land  and  people  of  a  play. 

She  was  not  consciously  insular.  On  the  contrary,  from 
her  railway  carriage  and  her  pension,  her  sight-seeing,  her 
studio  and  her  walks  abroad,  she  looked  out  upon  the  new 
order  of  existence  with  fascinated  and  enthusiastic  inter- 
est. And  France  responded,  on  accasion,  with  empresse- 
ment.  The  glance  of  your  average  Frenchman,  not  neces- 
sarily discourteous,  is  nevertheless  always  and  embarrass- 
ingly instructive.  She  had  begun  to  realize  that  she  was 
English :  she  was  now  made  aware  that  she  was  good-look- 
ing. She  was  to  take  no  credit;  but  this  was  her  birth- 
right and  her  blessing.  Wonderful  facts!  She  had  her 
moments  of  pharisaic  thankfulness  to  Providence  for  thus 
equipping  her,  as  she  plunged  with  zest  into  the  new  life. 
Like  a  doubtful  swimmer  she  put  a  foot  down,  now  and 
then,  just  to  feel  the  safe  English  ground  still  under  her, 
but  secretly,  shamefast:  on  the  surface  she  became,  with 
the  dear,  ridiculous  adaptability  of  the  teens,  very  French 
indeed — French  enough,  in  speech  and  air  and  manner,  let 
alone  clothing,  to  appal  Justin — but  that  comes  later.  She 
discovered  France.  She  had  her  youthful  right,  I  think,  to 
a  spoil  or  two. 

It  was  her  age  of  discovery.  She  discovered  the  Louvre, 
and  love,  and  Wagner,  and  Marcel  waves,  and  Mounet- 
Sully,  and  Botticelli,  and  how  to  put  on  a  hat.  She  was 
greedy.  She  swallowed  enough  to  give  her  indigestion  for 

81 


82  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

years,  as  indeed  it  did,  and  still,  like  a  fledgeling,  squawked 
for  more;  but  she  enjoyed  her  own  insatiability.  If  she 
could  have  had  Justin,  the  imaginary,  perceptive  Justin, 
to  talk  to  once  a  week,  she  would  have  been  happy.  She 
always  missed  Justin. 

But  among  the  endless  other  things  she  had  also  discov- 
ered that  a  year  has  only  fifty-two  weeks  in  it,  fifty-two 
series  of  seven  definite  days ;  that  it  is  no  interminable  road 
disappearing  into  the  mists  of  the  future;  that  it  is  no 
more,  indeed,  than  a  streaking  drive  down  a  Paris  street, 
with  busy  months  to  right  and  left  of  her,  like  shops  that 
she  had  no  time  to  explore.  Terrible,  how  time  went, 
when  there  was  much  to  see,  and  do,  and  learn,  before  she 
went  back  to  Brackenhurst.  Dear  old  Brackenhurst !  She 
meant  to  reform  Brackenhurst.  Justin  would  back  her. 
.  .  .  Lectures  in  the  schools  on — oh,  you  know,  interesting 
people — Corneille  and  Racine  and  Anatole  France  (she 
was  nothing  if  not  catholic)  and  some  really  decent  recita- 
tions at  the  penny  readings.  .  .  .  And  the  drawing-room 
must  be  done  up  ...  black  walls  and  futurist  cushions  .  .  . 
and  get  rid  of  the  Landseers.  .  .  .  She  should  enjoy  her- 
self when  she  returned  to  Brackenhurst — if  Justin  backed 
her.  .  .  .  She  wondered  what  he  would  say  to  the  way  she 
did  her  hair?  .  .  .  She  couldn't  think  why  Aunt  Adela 
wrote  such  fussy  letters  about  finding  Brackenhurst  quiet  ? 
Because  she  had  been  to  the  opera  twice  in  a  week,  she  sup- 
posed. .  .  .  But  Aunt  Adela  wouldn't  understand  how 
absurdly  cheap — and  besides,  she  had  paid  for  it  herself 
out  of  her  birthday  tip.  .  .  .  Aunt  Adela  needn't  think 
she  didn't  realize  how  good  it  was  of  Gran 'papa  to  send 
her  to  Paris.  .  .  .  Aunt  Adela  might  know  she  would  be 
careful.  .  .  .  But  a  franc  was  only  tenpence,  not  a  shilling 
.  .  .  and  she  had  sold  the  picture  she  had  been  copying  at 
the  Louvre  ...  a  lady,  an  American,  had  come  up  and 
liked  it  and  bought  it !  Three  pounds — seventy-five  francs ! 
Gran 'papa  needn't  send  her  any  more  pocket-money:  she 
could  last  for  months  on  that.  ...  As  for  finding  Bracken- 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  83 

hurst  quiet,  she  meant  to  turn  the  loose-box  into  an  atelier 
when  she  got  back,  and  paint  the  entire  village.  She  won- 
dered if  Gran 'papa  would  sit  to  her?  ...  A  beard  was 
such  a  comfort  .  .  .  mouths  were  always  the  trouble.  .  .  . 

All  this  in  the  first  months.  But  you  can  see  how  the 
old  sullen,  childish  distrust  of  everybody  was  wearing  itself 
out.  She  was  astonished  to  find  that  people  were  inclined 
to  like  her  at  sight,  and,  intrigued  by  such  original  be- 
haviour, she  unbent,  responded,  and  ended  by  acquiring  in 
her  turn  a  habit  of  appreciation. 

She  liked  life.  She  liked  her  pension.  She  liked  the 
courteous  French  girls  and  the  bravura  Americans,  and 
their  world  of  scent,  and  powder,  and  trim  waist  belts, 
and  Smart  Sets,  and  candy,  and  complicated  love  affairs. 
It  amused  her  immensely,  and  did  not  for  an  instant  im- 
press her  as  having  anything  to  do  with  real  life.  Real 
life  was  the  other  side  of  the  Channel.  Unconsciously, 
however,  the  views  of  her  fellows,  and  the  books  they 
read,  their  surreptitious  cigarettes,  and  their  ready  and 
untruthful  tongues,  had  a  certain  influence.  She  read  La 
Rochefoucauld,  with  a  "Yes,  indeed,"  expression  that 
might  have  tickled  even  that  disillusioned  gentleman, 
bought  a  powder-puff  and  sometimes  remembered  to  use  it, 
told  a  lie  or  two  and  was  never  found  out.  That  im- 
pressed her.  In  Brackenhurst  one  at  least  had  conscience- 
ache.  She  acquired  a  bosom  friend  and  defended,  upon 
occasion,  two  solid  and  reform-clad  Germans  from  the  rest 
of  the  dormitory.  In  return  she  discovered  that  they  had 
adored  her  for  weeks.  She  liked  that.  She  discovered 
that  she  could  talk  musingly  and  without  effort,  that  it 
was  perfectly  easy  to  be  at  the  top  of  her  classes.  In  spite 
of  her  foreignness  she  became  the  show  pupil — and  she 
liked  that  too.  She  wished  that  Justin  could  see  her  some- 
times. .  .  .  She  discovered  that  she  could  act  (indeed  some 
devil  dispossessed  her  at  charades  and  dressing-up,  lurked 
behind  her  eyes,  rapturous  and  Bacchanal),  that  she  could 
string  words  together  for  the  school  plays,  that  she  had 


84.  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

a  pretty  voice,  that  she  could  captain  an  emergency,  that, 
in  short,  she  was  a  success.  This  was  perfectly  delightful ! 
She  only  wished  there  were  a  way  of  telling  Justin  exactly 
what  a  charming  person  every  one  thought  her,  without 
appearing  conceited.  She  tried,  in  one  or  two  letters,  but 
it  couldn't  be  done.  She  had  to  tear  them  up. 

She  heard  from  Justin  sometimes.  They  corresponded 
in  sets  of  threes  and  fives — letter,  answer,  letter — or  letter, 
answer,  letter,  answer,  letter — and  then  a  pause  of  months. 
His  half  sheets,  terse,  generalizing,  almost  void  of  person- 
ality, were  the  events  of  her  exile,  a  double  source  of  de- 
light. They  were  Justin's  letters  and — they  had  to  be  an- 
swered !  It  was  in  the  code,  you  see,  that  you  only  wrote 
to  Justin  turn  and  turn  about,  and  never  twice  running, 
except  birthdays  and  Christmas  and  Easter  or  anything 
special,  like  sending  a  New  Year  parcel  to  Mrs.  Cloud,  or 
when  you  hadn't  heard  for  a  very  long  time;  because  let- 
ters bored  Justin.  And  besides 

Certainly  a  changing  Laura,  though  she  herself  could 
not  have  explained  to  you  the  meaning  of  that  "and 
besides " 

That  she  was  homesick  for  him  or  for  home — but  indeed 
the  two  words  were  synonyms  to  her — we  already  know; 
but  when  the  prospect  of  a  finishing  school  had  been  first 
mooted,  she  had  made  up  her  curious  mind,  so  plastic  and 
yet  so  stubborn,  that  she  would  not  be  silly  again  as  she 
had  been  when  she  was  young  (surely  the  Great  Gulf  is 
fixed  between  twelve  and  sixteen)  and  that  it  was  worth 
her  while  to  buy  with  only  two  black  years  the  chance  of 
growing  as  good  and  great  and  wise  as  Justin — that  is  to 
say,  nearly  as  good  and  as  great  and  as  wise.  She  knew 
her  limitations.  And  then,  when  she  came  back,  she  would 
be  able  to  be  friends  with  Justin — real  friends — not  a 
little  girl  to  be  played  with  any  more.  .  .  .  She  would  be 
'adequate'  .  .  .  She  was  very  jealous  of  that  adjective. 
' '  Adequate !  Oh,  an  awfully  adequate  chap ! "  .  .  .  Justin 
was  always  saying  that  people  he  approved  were  "ade- 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  85 

quate"  .  .  .  Very  good.  ...  He  should  say  so  of  her.  .  .  . 
To  that  end,  behold  her  tethered,  a  willing  sacrifice,  to  a 
French  Grammar  and  verbs  of  unmentionable  irregularity ! 

Also,  a  second  motive  for  docility,  there  were  studios  in 
Paris — pictures — statues  of  the  gods — teachers  of  the  Arts 
— one  Eodin  and  a  thing  called  a  Salon.  She  might  learn 
to  paint,  really  paint! 

She  got  her  way.  She  had  been  sent  to  a  quiet,  middle- 
class  pension,  owned  by  intelligent  women,  who  taught  the 
newcomers  themselves,  while  the  French  girls  and  the  more 
advanced  foreigners  attended  various  classes.  It  was  easy 
to  find  a  studio  for  Laura. 

And  so,  for  nearly  two  years,  she  worked  three  days  a 
week,  and  for  three  days  sat  enchanted,  soaking  herself 
in  strange  oils,  smeared  from  her  eyebrows  to  her  aching 
palette  thumb,  painting  portraits  and  dreaming  dreams. 
And  tragic  Monsieur  La  Motte,  that  great  artist  who  could 
not  paint,  who  taught  victoriously  by  word  of  mouth,  be- 
cause his  art  must  out  and  his  hands  could  not  obey  him, 
Monsieur  La  Motte,  swan-herd  fallen  on  hard  times,  yet 
ever  alert  for  a  cygnet  in  the  gaggle  of  geese  he  must 
drive  for  a  living,  Monsieur  La  Motte  watched  and  peered 
and  waited.  At  last,  when  her  two  years  were  nearly  at 
an  end,  and  the  studio-talk  that  frothed  like  a  fountain 
was  less  of  Cubism  and  the  expensiveness  of  rose-madder, 
Ingres,  Bergson,  Strindberg,  symbolic  colour  schemes  and 
the  Eternal  Return  (for  they  were  an  enquiring,  philo- 
sophical crew)  and  more  and  more  and  ever  more  of  Eng- 
land and  its  delectable  villages,  high  in  the  Kentish  hills, 
he  could  contain  himself  no  longer.  He  assumed  his  con- 
spiratorial hat  and  went,  then  and  there,  to  call  upon  his 
old  friends  the  Demoiselles  Dunois. 

Here,  he  explained,  was  his  chance.  Here  was  the  pupil 
for  whom  he  had  waited.  Talent — enormous  talent. 
Genius?  Ah,  that  was  another  matter — that  he  could  not 
say — not  yet — (he  spoke  as  might  a  doctor,  finger  on 
pulse,  awaiting  the  crisis)  but  talent  there  was  by  the  pot- 


86  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

fill,  talent  to  deceive  the  crowd,  and,  he  bade  them  observe, 
a  temperament  to  back  it.  Fire  was  there,  mingling 
paradoxically  with  the  cold  English  blood,  like  the  abomi- 
nable English  drink,  the  cold  yet  burning  ouiski-soda.  Not 
for  nothing  had  the  door  between  atelier  and  Monsieur's 
sanctum  stood  ajar.  Could  he  have  Mademoiselle  Valen- 
tine for  two  years,  only  two  years — they  should  see  what 
they  should  see!  But  he  understood  it  was  a  question  of 
expense.  Now  would  it  not  be  possible ? 

His  black  eyes  and  his  pointed  beard  and  his  long  yellow 
fingers  all  twinkled  together  as  he  elaborated  his  ideas,  till 
he  looked  like  a  Svengali  possessed  by  the  spirit  of  Mr. 
Samuel  Pickwick.  The  Demoiselles  Dunois,  who  admired 
him  immensely,  and  were  fond,  too,  of  Laura,  responded 
with  enthusiasm.  Heads  together  over  the  coffee  cups  they 
hatched  their  kindly  plot. 

But  other  folk,  fortunately  or  not,  had  been  plotting 
too.  Mrs.  Cloud  dreaded  the  March  winds  as  she  did  not 
dread  the  still  cold  of  true  winter  weather.  Justin,  at 
home  six  months  now,  was  growing  restless  again  though 
his  lounge  round  the  world  had  bored  him  at  the  time.  He 
had  started  out  in  high  enough  spirits  and  with  more 
money  in  his  pockets  than  is  good  for  the  youthful  male. 
But  he  had  not  the  knack  of  enjoying  himself  illegitimately. 
He  was  virtuous,  because  vice  did  not  appeal  to  him  and  he 
had  not  the  inquisitiveness  of  little  minds.  Yet  he  cried 
for  Our  Lady  the  Moon  like  any  other  youngster.  It  was 
borne  in  upon  him  that  he  was  plodding  through  en- 
chanted lands  with  the  thoroughness  of  a  typical  tourist, 
and  it  annoyed  him  hugely.  Yet  he  had  no  notion  of  how 
to  help  himself.  He  was  relieved  to  get  home  again.  His 
mother  was  very  sweet.  He  enjoyed  unpacking  the  spoils 
of  his  comfortable  Odyssey  and  scattering  them  about  the 
house,  though  the  birds '-egg  collection  still  held  the  place 
of  honour  in  his  den.  It  was  considerably  enlarged  since 
the  days  of  Laura's  protest,  and  he  was  tenacious  of  old 
likes  and  dislikes.  One  of  the  first  visits  he  paid  on  his 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  87 

return  was  to  Bellew,  who  welcomed  him  with  chirrups  of 
pleasure.  Everybody  was  always  delighted  to  see  Justin. 
He  had,  quite  unconsciously,  the  disarming  assurance  of 
the  big  strange  dog  with  the  wet  coat,  who  greets  you  with 
vigorous  affection  at  church  parade.  "Why  shouldn't  you 
be  pleased  to  see  him  ?  And  you  are,  you  know,  in  spite  of 
splashed  taffetas.  You  cannot  help  yourself. 

Bellew  and  Justin  picked  up  their  acquaintance  where 
they  had  dropped  it  eighteen  months  before,  and  agreed 
better  than  ever,  enjoying,  not  so  much  each  other,  as  their 
common  interest  in  a  common  hobby.  Bellew  even  talked 
tentatively  of  the  voyage  he  intended  to  make  up  the  coast, 
and  on  to  the  Hebrides  to  take  photographs  of  sea-birds 
and  their  nests  for  his  new  book.  He  needed  an  active 
assistant.  But  Justin,  tempted,  was  non-committal.  He 
was  only  just  home.  His  mother  did  not  grow  younger. 
He  was  too  fond  of  her  even  to  tell  her  of  the  idea  lest 
she  should  insist,  yet,  with  time  heavy  on  his  hands,  it 
made  him  restless,  the  readier  for  a  change  when  she, 
coughing  a  little  and  looking,  in  spite  of  her  comfort- 
able house  and  the  furs  from  Russia,  a  frail,  nipped 
leaf  of  a  woman,  talked  of  the  Riviera — or  Italy?  She 
had  not  been  to  Italy  since  her  honeymoon,  and  Justin,  for 
all  his  globe-trotting,  had  not  been  at  all.  What  about 
Italy?  Italy  would  be  delightful  if  Justin  wouldn't  find 
it  dull,  with  just  the  two  of  them? 

It  was  then  that  Justin  said — I  am  always  glad  that  it 
was  Justin  who  said — 

"Well,  what  about  Laura?" 


CHAPTER  XI 

WELL,  what  about  Laura? 

Will  you  take  a  peep  at  Laura  in  bed  with  the  remains 
of  a  cold,  on  her  chill  March  birthday — Laura,  very  sorry 
for  herself,  languidly  undoing  her  presents — miraculously 
cured  by  the  arrival  of  The  Letter  ? 

You  and  I,  of  course,  can  sympathize — would  dearly  love 
a  trip  to  Italy  with  the  right  people.  But  there  we  pause. 

But  be  eighteen:  be  soaked  to  your  crude  soul  in  art, 
and  the  literature  and  the  history  and  the  legend  of  art, 
till  Colour  is  your  romance  and  Line  your  religion,  and 
gradually,  inevitably,  Italy,  that  tenth  muse,  grows  in  your 
mind  as  love  grows,  from  a  mere  word  to  an  idea,  from  an 
idea  to  a  symbol,  from  a  symbol  to  a  real  presence  that  will 
not  be  denied,  that  calls  to  you  as  the  Holy  Places  called  to 
the  Crusaders  long  ago.  And  if  into  the  bargain  you  have 
been  homesick 

Be  eighteen  and  homesick — it  is  worth  your  while — be- 
fore you  go  to  Italy  with  Justin  and  Mrs.  Cloud ! 

Italy  and  Justin — Justin  and  Italy !  It  was  beyond  be- 
lief. One  delight,  indeed,  so  far  neutralized  the  other, 
that  she  did  at  last  attain  a  state  of  calm,  'French  calm,' 
in  which  she  wound  up  her  affairs,  packed  her  trunk — she 
would  not  travel  for  a  week,  but  she  packed  her  trunk  that 
day — and,  interviewing  the  Demoiselles  Dunois,  broke  the 
miraculous  news. 

It  was  almost  inevitable,  while  Life,  like  Monna  Lisa, 
wears  her  little  crooked  smile,  that  Laura  should  have 
overwhelmed  those  enthusiasts  at  the  instant  of  their 
assembly  to  do  the  like  by  her.  But  in  the  joyous  hubbub 
of  keys  and  speeds  and  gesture,  their  voices,  as  the  elder, 
soon  rose  predominant,  and  Laura  must  listen  while  they 

88 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  89 

detailed,  amid  appeals  to  Monsieur  La  Motte,  benevolent 
in  the  seat  of  honour,  their  good-fairy  plans. 

The  English  mistress  was  leaving  and  Laura  should  teach 
in  her  stead,  unpaid,  yet  with  board  and  lodging  and  free 
mornings  in  return.  That,  they  promised,  should  arrange 
itself  as  Monsier  decided,  Monsieur  who,  with  a  generosity 
that  was  like  him,  was  throwing  open  his  studio  to  Laura, 
asking  no  more  of  her  than  that  she  should  help,  when 
she  could,  those  whose  talent  was  less  than  her  own.  For 
Monsieur  was  of  opinion  that  she  had  such  talent  as  justi- 
fied  and  so  on,  until  for  sheer  lack  of  breath  they  paused 

in  delighted  anticipation  of  her  delight. 

Of  course  she  was  grateful,  touched  and  grateful.  A 
week  earlier,  so  kind  had  Paris  grown,  so  far  at  times  her 
England,  she  might  even  have  been  tempted.  But  with 
Mrs.  Cloud's  letter  tucked  away  in  her  blouse,  the  words 
that  were  rung  in  her  ears,  'career,'  'success,'  'ambition,' 
'future,'  could  not  convey  their  meaning,  died  away  again 
as  words,  mere  words. 

But  it  was  kind  of  them — most  extraordinarily  kind.  She 
was  glad  (with  her  quick  flush)  that  Monsieur  thought  she 
had  talent — and  of  course  it  was  a  lovely  idea — but — but 
— "You  see — they  have  asked  me — my  friends — to  go  to 
Italy!" 

They  did  not  seem  to  understand. 

"Italy!  and  my  friends!"  She  tried  to  explain  the 
situation  calmly  and  decorously ;  but  it  was  not  easy : 

"My  friends!  and  I  haven't  seen  them  for  two  years! 
My  English  friends!  From  my  home!  I'm  to  go  to  Italy 
— to  Florence — Fra  Angelico — Benozzo  Gozzoli — six  weeks 
— and  perhaps  Rome — with  my  friends — my  English 
friends ! ' ' 

She  was  nearly  crying  with  delight.  And  then,  with 
quick  compunction  at  their  blank  faces — 

"But  you  do  understand  how  grateful  I  am?  I  simply 
hate  leaving.  You  do  understand?" 

The  sisters  assured  her  that  they  did  understand.     She 


90  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

should  have  her  holiday,  and  her  visit  home,  and  then — 
she  would  come  back?  In  two,  three,  four  months,  she 
would  want  to  come  back.  Because  a  talent  was  a  gift  of 
God — and  the  school  would  be  so  proud — and,  who  knew,  a 
picture  in  the  Salon!  Of  course  they  understood.  She 
should  go.  But  afterwards — she  would  come  back? 

She  was  bewildered  by  their  solicitude.  It  was  the  first 
time  in  her  life  that  affection  had  come  to  her  unsought. 
Its  display  touched  her  (that  they  should  actually  be  fond 
of  her ! )  but  it  embarrassed  her  too.  She  could  only  smile 
and  nod  and  thank  them  again  and  again,  and  promise  to 
think  over  all  they  had  said,  and  write  to  them  from  Italy. 

"She  will  come  back,"  said  the  sisters  confidently,  when 
at  last  Laura  had  escaped.  "So  young  a  thing — her  holi- 
day— natural  enough!  But  the  talent  is  there,  as  Mon- 
sieur says.  And  talent  will  out.  She  will  come  back." 

Monsieur  La  Motte  listened  to  them  as  he  had  listened  to 
Laura,  in  silence.  It  was  not  until  coffee  had  been  served 
and  drunk,  and  the  dregs  were  cold  in  his  cup,  that  he  de- 
livered himself. 

"She  will  not  come  back,"  he  decided  with  a  sigh,  as  he 
rose  to  go. 

"You  will  see!  In  two  months — you  will  see!"  they 
consoled  him  sagaciously. 

"She  will  not  come  back." 


CHAPTER  XII 

SHE  was  to  meet  the  Clouds  at  Lucerne.  She  had  hoped 
for  Paris,  but  there  was  the  Swiss-German  adorer  who 
would  not  be  denied.  Laura  never  found  it  easy  to  deny. 
So  she  spent  a  good-natured,  chafing  week  in  the  Berne 
household,  which,  falling  in  love  with  her,  enthusiastically 
and  inexorably  overfed  her.  From  that  hot-bed  of  senti- 
ment and  rich  meals  the  train  bore  her  away  one  fine  spring 
morning,  with  a  pimple  on  her  tongue,  but  her  duty  done. 

It  was  a  bother  being  nice  to  people  who  bored  you  .  .  . 
but  it  was  the  only  way  you  could  pay  back  the  gods  for 
being  nice  to  you  .  .  .  ran  her  philosophy.  She  only 
hoped  the  gods  would  go  on  being  nice  when  they  met 
again.  .  .  .  Two  years  was  a  long  time.  .  .  .  Would  the 
gods  have  altered  much?  .  .  .  One  can't  tell  from  photo- 
graphs. .  .  .  But  gods  don't  alter  .  .  .  therein  lies  their 

godhead.  .  .  .  Now  she,  Laura Oh,  how  she  wondered 

if  he  would  like  her  in  long  skirts  ? 

The  train  fussed  into  the  unplatformed  station-way  at 
half-past  one,  and  tipped  her  out,  as  it  seemed  afterwards, 
onto  the  very  lake  edge,  much  as  an  elderly  fairy,  with  a 
sense  of  duty,  drops  a  stray  godchild  in  elf -land  for  a  week ; 
and  so  puffed  off  again  in  its  overworked  fashion,  leaving 
her,  open-mouthed,  before  the  enchanted  hollow  of  Lucerne. 

She  might  well  gasp,  forgetting  her  holiday,  forgetting 
even  " Justin-an '-Italy, "  for  long  intoxicated  minutes;  for 
she  was  a  painter,  a  painter  unproven,  a  painter  who  had 
just  sold  her  birthright  for  that  same  Justin-an '-Italy,  but 
who  was  not  therefore  free  of  the  torment  of  her  eyes,  her 
all-absorbing  eyes  and  her  itching  finger-tips :  and  Lucerne 
was  a  portrait  that  day  fit  for  the  ten-leagued  canvas  and 

91 


92  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

the  brush  of  comet's  hair,   a  king's   daughter,    glorious 
within,  revealed  and  royal  in  a  dazzle  of  blue. 

It  was  a  blue  beyond  belief,  a  blue  enamelled  thinly  upon 
the  gold  plate  of  the  sun,  upon  the  antique-black  of  space 
itself.  The  great  mountains,  the  rounded  sky,  the -very  air 
seemed  carved,  solidly,  like  the  cup  in  the  fairy  tale,  out 
of  a  single  sapphire,  fretted  over  with  pearls  that  were 
clouds  and  the  diamond  glitter  of  the  snow  line,  while  far 
below  the  thin  bridge  lay  across  the  lake  like  a  felled  tree 
in  a  clearing  of  English  bluebells. 

"My  word!"  marvelled  Laura  inadequately.  "My 
word!"  and  then,  with  a  deep  breath — "Oh,  my  word!" 

Her  hand  was  at  her  mouth,  hiding  it  because  it  trembled, 
as  she  stared  and  stared.  She  never  outgrew  that  instinc- 
tive, characteristic  gesture,  that  unconscious  obedience  to 
the  law  of  her  experience — "Never  show  what  you  feel." 
Her  delight  in  that  triumphant  blue  was  thoughtless,  al- 
most physical:  she  felt  it  whirl  her  like  a  wind.  Yet,  be- 
cause she  must  always  share  her  good  things,  at  the  back  of 
her  mind  an  indignant  outcry  began  for  "all  of  them" 
in  forsaken  Rue  Honorine. 

' '  My  word !    Wouldn  rt  they  go  mad !     It 's  a  shame ! ' ' 

She  could  see  the  broad  thumb  of  Monsieur  plastering 
an  imaginary  canvas  with  unctuous  blobs  and  quorls,  and 
the  pretty  pastel  ardour  of  Elisabeth,  and  the  despair  of 
the  water-colourists :  she  heard  again  the  rumorous  voice  of 
the  classe,  the  depths  and  shallows  of  appreciation,  the 
shared  delight  in  vision  of  those  who  have  learned,  who  are 
learning  to  see:  and  then,  mingling  with  those  familiar 
voices,  a  voice  yet  more  familiar,  uplifted  in  the  immemorial 
opening — 

"Pretty  good,  isn't  it?" 

"Justin!" 

She  wheeled.  Beauty  was  forgotten,  was  a  nothing,  a 
phrase,  a  dead  leaf.  The  high  hills  were  cardboard,  the 
sky  a  back-cloth  and  no  more,  for  the  well-to-do  tweed 
figure,  the  one  figure  of  Henry  Justin  Cloud. 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  93 

And  thus  we  teach  Nature  her  place ! 

"Justin!  Oh,  how  lovely!  But  you're  not  due  till 
four!  Where's  Mrs.  Cloud?  I  was  just  off  to  see  the 
Lion.  I  thought  there  was  time.  You  said  four.  Oh,  I 
am  disappointed.  I  meant  to  meet  you  properly,  on  the 
platform.  You  did  say  four!"  She  was  comically  un- 
willing to  give  up  the  picture  in  her  mind,  of  herself  on  the 
platform  and  the  train  dashing  in,  and  the  faces  at  the 
carriage  window. 

He  explained  as  they  shook  hands  and  beamed  at  each 
other— 

"We  changed  our  minds — started  a  day  sooner  to  break 
the  journey  for  Mother.  She 's  at  the  hotel.  We  could  nip 
up  and  see  the  Lion  still  if  you  liked,  while  she  has  her 
nap.  There 's  loads  of  time. " 

Laura  was  all  eagerness  and  acquiescence,  and  they 
crossed  the  bridge  and  swung  off  at  Justin's  pace  up  the 
sweep  of  the  road.  Not  that  she  wanted  to  see  the  Lion 
qua  Lion  any  more,  though  five  minutes  ago  she  had  been 
as  earnest  a  sightseer  as  ever  read  an  illustrated  Life  of 
Thorwaldsen  and  What  the  Moon  Saw.  But  as  a  mediary 
between  her  shyness  and  this  stranger  who  was  Justin,  who 
had  caught  her  before  she  had  powedered  her  nose  and  put 
her  thoughts  in  order,  the  Lion  was  invaluable.  Justin, 
with  a  little  help,  would  talk  contentedly  about  him,  and 
that  would  give  her  time.  .  .  .  Time  for  what?  But  that 
she  could  not  have  told  you. 

The  truth  was,  of  course,  that  the  excitement  that  had 
sustained  her  for  weeks  was  over,  and  its  effect,  like  that 
of  any  other  drug,  wearing  off.  But  she  only  knew  that 
she  was  suddenly  limp  and  shy.  She  smiled  and  talked 
with  her  mouth,  but  her  eyes  were  quite  grave  as  she 
watched  Justin.  She  felt  a  forgotten,  uneasily  familiar 
sensation  creeping  over  and  through  her,  as  a  mist  or  a 
ghost  goes  through  locked  doors,  a  ghost  that  spoke  with 
her  own  voice,  whispering — "But — but  this  isn't  Justin? 
I  had  forgotten  he  was  like  this -" 


94,  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

And  yet  he  was  just  the  same  as  ever.  .  .  .  Not  quite 
so  tall,  perhaps,  as  she  had  remembered  him  ...  or  she 
had  grown  taller.  .  .  .  He  was  pleased  to  see  her,  she  was 
sure,  but  he  had  nothing  much  to  say  until  they  reached  the 
Lion.  The  Lion  was  most  helpful.  .  .  . 

Justin  explained  to  Laura  that  it  was  a  Neo-Classic 
Lion,  and  therefore  less  admirable  than  the  Lions  in 
Trafalgar  Square,  which  were  from  life — Zoo  life.  "I 
see!"  said  Laura.  She  was  sure  he  must  have  been  read- 
ing the  same  biography,  but  she  thought  she  had  better  not 
ask  him.  But  she  did  ask  him  why  he  approved  of  the 
Trafalgar  Square  Lions,  when  he  had  so  often  girded  at 
'The  Monarch  of  the  Glen'  in  Green  Gates  parlour. 
Justin,  warming,  said  that  Landseer  was  a  photographer, 
but  that  photography  was  honester  than  imitation  anyway, 
and  explained  that  Thorwaldsen  had  got  his  ideas  from  the 
Assyrian  plaques  in  the  British  Museum.  They  would 
look  them  up  one  day  when  they  got  home  again  and 
then  she  would  see.  All  this,  and  now  that  he  was  once 
started,  so  very  much  more,  with  such  a  familiar  air  of  un- 
burdening himself,  such  an  assumption  of  her  entire  in- 
terest, such  an  implied  re-definition  of  her  status  as  his 
particular  property,  that  the  ghost  melted  away  again,  as 
it  always  did  when  Justin  smiled  at  her,  and  she  said 
defiantly  to  the  Lion — 

' '  I  don 't  care.     I  like  him  this  way. ' ' 


CHAPTER  XIII 

UP  and  up  and  up  went  the  train  and  Laura's  spirits  with 
it.  Mrs.  Cloud  was  in  one  corner  of  the  compartment  and 
Justin  in  the  other,  and  there  were  two  squares  of  glass, 
unlike  prim  English  carriage  windows,  opening  upon 
wonders,  black  mountains  and  clouds  and  brilliant  grass, 
and  under  their  feet,  but  far  below,  the  terraced  lines  of 
the  track  over  which  they  had  already  passed.  Sometimes 
a  drift  of  white  hid  them.  Laura  thought  that  it  was 
smoke,  but  Justin  said  "no — clouds."  Imagine!  She 
was  so  high  up  that  she  was  looking  down  on  clouds ! 

Justin  laughed  at  her. 

"Beats  Beech  Hill,  doesn't  it?" 

"No,  it  doesn't,"  she  said  instantly;  but  she  grew  more 
and  more  excited.  And  all  the  time  they  talked  to  her 
and  she  to  them — though  Justin  was  quieter  than  she 
thought  he  need  be  when  he  hadn't  seen  her  for  two  years 
— of  all  things  under  the  sun  and  of  how  glad  she  was  to 
see  them:  and  the  train  climbed  higher  and  higher.  It 
stopped  once,  at  a  snow-covered  siding,  for  them  to  drink 
coffee  in  inch-thick  cups,  and  the  coffee  or  the  air,  the  air 
that  was  like  old  still  wine,  must  have  gone  to  Laura's 
head  a  little.  She  certainly  talked  too  much,  fluttering 
like  a  distracted  butterfly  between  Paris  and  Justin,  and 
the  right-hand  window  and  the  left-hand  window,  and  how 
was  Gran 'papa  and  Savonarola  and  cushions  for  Mrs. 
Cloud.  She  did  not  even  stop  in  the  tunnel. .  And  the  dis- 
carded ghost  of  a  disappointment  found  that  Laura  was 
not  the  only  person  in  the  carriage  worth  haunting.  Justin 
had  smoked  himself  into  one  of  his  silences.  He  was  not 
sure  that  Laura  was  improved.  Her  voice  was  rather  high. 
He  thought  that  she  was  showing  off. 

95 


96  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

He  was  right.  She  was  so  desperately  anxious  that  they 
should  be  pleased  with  her:  and  excitement  had  oiled  her 
discretion.  She  could  not  resist  marshalling  all  her  ac- 
quirements at  once  for  their  inspection. 

Mrs.  Cloud  suddenly  pulled  down  Laura's  glowing  face 
to  her  and  kissed  it. 

"I  can't  help  it.  I'm  nearly  bursting."  Laura  an- 
swered her  apologetically,  though  she  had  said  nothing  at 
all.  And  then,  with  a  rush,  "Oh,  Mrs.  Cloud,  you  are  a 
dear!"  They  perfectly  understood  each  other. 

But  Justin  stared  at  them  and  disapproved.  It  was  so 
unlike  his  mother  to  be  demonstrative  .  .  .  and  he  wished 
Laura  would  sit  down  and  read.  .  .  .  She  talked  too  much. 

She  did  at  last,  as  the  dusk  fell  and  they  left  the  high 
lands  behind  them,  settle  down  to  the  dear,  blameless  Eng- 
lish magazines,  but  not  before  she  had  had  him  thoroughly 
on  edge. 

By  the  end  of  two  days  she  was  on  edge  herself.  She 
always  remembered  Milan  as  a  series  of  spires  and  roofs, 
up  and  down  which  she  toiled  after  a  Justin  who  never 
waited  for  her,  who  always  made  his  remarks  just  too  far 
off  for  her  to  hear  what  he  said.  And  he  hated  repeating 
himself.  She  did  not  know  what  had  come  to  either  of 
them.  They  were  always  on  the  verge  of  perfect  agreement 
or  a  serious  quarrel  and  nothing  ever  happened,  except 
that  Justin  had  the  bored  look  in  his  eyes  that  Laura 
dreaded,  and  Laura  had  a  lump  in  her  throat  all  day  long. 

Yet  sometimes  Laura  wondered  if  she  imagined  the  whole 
thing.  Mrs.  Cloud  did  not  seem  disturbed.  Mrs.  Cloud 
drove  with  them  in  the  mornings,  and  rested  in  the  after- 
noons, and  listened  to  them  in  the  evenings,  and  beamed  at 
them  both  as  if  she  found  life  as  pleasant  as  usual.  And 
she  approved  of  Laura.  Of  that  there  was  no  doubt.  It 
was  Mrs.  Cloud  who  nodded  congratulations  when  Laura, 
on  their  first  evening,  in  her  first  evening  dress,  swished 
her  way  in  and  out  of  the  dining-tables,  very  grown-up  and 
shy  and  uncomfortable.  Mrs.  Cloud  would  not  have 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  97 

changed  Justin  for  a  dozen  Lauras,  and  yet,  watching  her 
entry,  quite  alive  to  the  heads  that  turned,  and  the  murmur 
at  the  nearer  tables,  she  wished  she  had  a  beautiful  young 
daughter  of  her  own  of  whom  to  be  critically  proud. 

"Green's  your  colour!"  said  Mrs.  Cloud,  as  Laura  set- 
tled herself.  No  more — but  it  was  the  accolade. 

Laura  blushed  and  glanced  at  Justin. 

' '  Chianti  or  white  wine  ? "  he  enquired  with  some  interest. 

"No,  thank  you.  Water,  please."  (.  .  .  Men  were 
queer!) 

"Oh,  if  you'd  rather!"     (.  .  .  Odd  things,  women!) 

It  was  the  last  straw  when  Art,  the  Italian  jade,  plucked 
at  Justin's  sleeve,  whispering  that  two  were  company  .  .  . 
and  Justin  went  out  to  Pavia  all  by  himself.  Mrs.  Cloud 
had  a  headache.  Laura,  because  she  felt  like  it,  spent  her 
afternoon  at  the  Campo  Santo,  and,  among  tombs,  made  up 
her  mind  to  have  it  out  with  Justin. 

She  had  a  certain  desperate  directness  in  emergencies 
that  might  easily  have  been  mistaken  for  courage.  She  had 
quite  the  average  capacity  of  a  woman  for  subterfuge,  but, 
linked  with  it,  a  curious  dread  of  being  spared  in  her 
turn.  She  could  face  an  ugly  truth,  but  she  could  not 
endure  it  tailored.  She  must  know  where  she  stood.  She 
must  know  where  she  stood  with  Justin,  risking  snubs; 
though  she  dreaded  being  snubbed  as  only  soft-shelled 
youth  can.  She  must  know  what  she  done  wrong.  She 
was  quite  sure  that,  whatever  it  was,  it  was  her  fault,  be- 
cause if  it  were  not  her  fault,  it  would  be  Justin's.  .  .  . 
And  that  was  impossible.  .  .  .  She  did  not  pretend  to  un- 
derstand Justin,  she  knew  she  was  not  clever  enough  for 
that,  but  at  least  she  realized  that  he  had  no  faults.  .  .  . 
She  was  not  quite  a  fool.  .  .  .  There  were  certain  inexpli- 
cabilities,  of  course,  but  they  were  not  her  presumptuous 
business.  .  .  . 

One  does  not  criticize  one's  god,  or  only  when  one  has 
ceased  to  believe  in  him.  But  God  is  not  God  when  one 
ceases  to  believe  in  Him. 


98  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

She  attacked  Justin  the  next  evening,  choosing  the 
wrong  moment,  when  he  was  tired,  ready  for  a  pipe  and  a 
book  rather  than  argument.  But  he  had  been  kind  to  her 
at  dinner  and  she  had  made  him  laugh.  (At  least  she  could 
always  make  him  laugh.)  She  thought  his  mood  could  not 
change  in  half  an  hour. 

But  it  had  changed.  He  was  absorbed,  if  not  somnolent : 
had  not  a  glance  to  spare  as  she  hesitated  in  front  of  him. 

"Justin?    Aren't  you  coming  out  again?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

She  looked  out  of  the  window.  The  moon  glimmered  in 
the  white  sky,  thin  and  flat  and  unsubstantial,  like  a 
peeled  honesty  leaf :  and,  below,  the  square  was  glamorous. 
The  cathedral  that  rose  out  of  it,  like  June  woods  turned  to 
stone,  quivered  in  the  warm  dusk  as  on  the  verge  of  dis- 
enchantment. The  dots  of  lamp-light  increased  like  but- 
tercups all  opening  at  once,  and  among  them  people  moved 
in  vague  masses.  A  shrill  of  voices  and  laughter  floated 
upwards. 

Laura  turned  to  Justin,  straining  his  eyes  over  Bae- 
deker's Northern  Italy.  The  sight  of  the  crowd  had 
stirred  her,  made  her  want  to  go  down  into  it,  just  as  the 
sight  of  the  sea  makes  you  want  to  bathe. 

"It's  only  half -past  eight,"  she  hazarded. 

He  read  on. 

She  glanced  across  at  Mrs.  Cloud,  half  asleep  at  the 
other  end  of  the  huge  deserted  hotel  sitting-room.  They 
were  the  only  people  indoors  on  that  warm  spring  night  of 
Italy. 

Suddenly  she  attacked  him — 

"Justin,  you'll  hurt  your  eyes."  Then,  with  a  curtness 
that  was  pure  embarrassment, ' '  Justin,  what 's  the  matter  ? ' ' 

"The  matter?"     He  raised  his  eyebrows. 

' '  Yes.  I  want  to  know. ' '  She  hesitated.  ' '  Is  anything 
wrong?  Have  I  done  anything  you  don't  like?  What 
makes  you ?'" 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  99 

"What?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know — so  funny  to  me.     So — grumpy." 

"I'm  sorry.     I  didn't  know "  he  began  stiffly. 

She  flared  out. 

"Of  course  you  know.  It's  been  perfectly  awful.  You 
sit  on  me  and  sit  on  me — and  go  out  by  yourself — and 
fidget  at  meals  when  I  talk " 

"I  say,  don't  wake  Mother,"  he  warned  her. 

Hastily  she  dropped  an  octave. 

"So  I  think  you  might  tell  me  what's  the  matter,"  she 
concluded. 

"Oh  rot,  Laura,"  said  Justin  uncomfortably.  "What 
should  be  the  matter?" 

He  waited  a  moment  for  her  answer ;  but  she  said  noth- 
ing: was  waiting  in  her  turn.  He  looked  at  his  book. 

If  he  once  began  reading  again  .  .  . 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said  hastily,  "but  there  is.  You 
might  tell  me,  Justin."  She  put  her  hand  upon  his  open 
book,  would  not  budge  as  he  tried  politely  to  move  it. 
"You've  got  to  tell  me,"  she  insisted. 

It  was  a  very  young  and  ignorant  thing  to  do,  crudely 
provocative  if  it  had  not  been  so  utterly  unconscious.  A 
woman  or  an  older  man  would  have  laughed  and  under- 
stood and  found  it  charming  enough.  But  it  annoyed 
Justin.  He  hated  to  be  bothered.  He  had  a  keen  sense 
of  his  own  dignity.  Above  all  he  had  a  horror  of  being 
inveigled  into  anything  approaching  sentimentality.  And 
he  was  out  of  touch  with  Laura.  He  had  been  prepared  for 
a  jolly  little  girl,  not  for  a  young  woman  with  obvious  faults 
and  disconcerting  garments.  He  was  just  too  old  to  label 
her  challenge  'cheek,'  yet  not  old  enough  to  make  allow- 
ances for  her  hobble-de-hoyhood,  to  differentiate  between 
impudence  and  a  lack  of  savoir-faire.  Ever  since  Lucerne 
he  had  been,  though  he  had  no  idea  of  analysing  his  atti- 
tude, disappointed,  on  the  edge  of  boredom.  He  was  as 
unaware  as  she  herself  of  the  beauty  of  her  hand,  he 


100  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

merely  knew  that  he  didn't  want  a  great  paw  sprawling 
over  his  book.  He  wanted  to  say  "Get  out!"  And  she 
stood  there  and  waited ! 

He  leaned  back  in  his  chair  with  elaborate  indifference. 

"Justin!" 

She  was  actually  smiling  at  him — pleased,  he  supposed, 
with  the  success  of  her  idiotic  performance. 

"I  don't  know  that  it's  anything  much,"  he  was  im- 
pelled to  begin.  "It  doesn't  matter  anyway.  It's 
only ' '  He  broke  off. 

' '  Tell  me, ' '  she  insisted.  And  again  he  disliked  her  tone. 
Who  was  she  to  order  him  about?  Oh,  well,  if  she  wanted 
it  she  should  have  it.  ... 

"You're  rather  different  from  what  I  expected."  He 
stopped.  It  was  not  perfectly  easy,  annoyed  as  he  was. 

"How?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know." 

"How?"  She  had  a  touch  of  colour  in  her  cheek.  Her 
bright  eyes  compelled  him. 

"You're — rather  French,  you  know.  You  don't  seem 
quite — natural. ' ' 

"How?" 

"Well,  your  clothes " 

Her  face  fell. 

' '  Oh,  Justin,  don 't  you  like  them  ? ' ' 

"They're  rather  bright." 

"Oh!" 

He  did  not  volunteer  anything. 

"What  else,  Justin?" 

"Oh,  how  do  I  know?"  He  was  impatient.  "It's  not 
my  business.  But  I  hate  scent  and  chatter  and  high  heels 
and  things  that  jingle.  And  you  come  down  to  dinner 
with  your  hair  fussed  out  like  an  actress.  But  it's  all 
right,  I  expect." 

"I  see."  She  managed  to  smile  at  him  before  she 
swished  across  to  the  window,  with  the  little  un-English 
swing  of  her  body  that  was  another  of  her  ways  that 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  101 

vaguely  irritated  him.  He  made  an  impatient  movement. 
Of  course  he  didn't  want  to  hurt  her  feelings,  but  why  on 
earth  did  she  worry  him? 

' '  I  only  mean You  wouldn  't  see  Mother Every 

one  looks  at  you ! ' '  And  then,  "  I  'm  sorry,  Laura,  but  you 
made  me  say  what  I  think. ' ' 

"Of  course.  I'm  glad.  I'm  glad  to  know  what  you 
think." 

Her  voice  grew  higher  and  higher  as  she  tried  to  over- 
top the  catch  in  it.  He  had  put  a  match  to  her  quick 
young  pride,  and  it  blazed  and  raged  within  her  till  she 
was  quite  sick  with  the  physical  pain  of  it.  The  intoler- 
able, humiliating  tears  rose  under  her  lids.  Always  with 
her  back  to  him  she  took  her  handkerchief,  screwed  it  to 
a  point,  and  removed  them  with  precise  care.  She  could 
not  quite  control  them,  the  square  danced  mistily,  but  at 
least  she  would  not  show  a  stained  face.  Head  up  before 
everything ! 

'Not  natural,'  'like  an  actress.'.  .  .  Oh,  it  wasn't  fair 
of  Justin  .  .  .  wasn't  fair  not  to  give  her  time  to  get  used 
to  him  again.  .  .  .  He'd  been  grown-up  so  much  longer, 
but  didn  't  he  remember  what  it  felt  like  to  be  shy  and  awk- 
ward and  uncertain?  .  .  .  How  could  one  cover  it  up  but 
by  being  glib?  ...  At  Paris  they  liked  her.  .  .  .  Mrs. 
Cloud  liked  her.  .  .  .  Mrs.  Cloud  had  liked  her  green  dress. 
.  .  .  She  didn't  know  what  he  meant.  ...  It  wasn't 
vanity,  everybody  waved  their  hair.  .  .  .  She  couldn't 
help  her  voice  being  loud.  .  .  .  She  had  never  realized  that 
she  was  so  full  of  faults.  .  .  .  She  had  only  wanted  to 
make  herself  nice — and  now  it  was  all  wrong.  .  .  .  And 
after  looking  forward  so  to  Italy.  .  .  .  Not  that  she  cared 
.  .  .  not  that  she  cared  a  hang !  .  .  . 

' '  Don 't  worry,  Laura ! ' '  Justin  was  stirred  by  a  vague 
compunction,  though  he  wished  that  she  did  not  find  it 
necessary  to  stand  between  him  and  the  last  of  the  light. 
"What  does  it  matter?  I  told  you — it's  nothing  to  do  with 
me." 


102  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

She  whirled  round  indignantly,  all  eyes  and  flame. 

"Whom  else  has  it  got  to  do  with  but  you  and  Mrs. 
Cloud  and  Gran 'papa?  If  you  feel  that  way  I've  got  to 
alter  things.  It's  dreadful!  It's  dreadful  that  you  don't 
like  me  any  more." 

He  was  obliged  to  smile  at  that — a  smile  that  lit  up  his 
face  as  sunshine  brightens  a  room:  and  suddenly,  for  the 
first  time  since  their  meeting,  he  was  at  home  with  her 
again.  The  simplicity  of  her  passionate  distress  was  so 
familiar,  so  entirely  the  Laura  he  had  missed,  that  the  two 
alienating  years  were  blotted  out,  as  the  darkness  was  blot- 
ting out  Laura's  skirts  and  offending  airs  and  graces, 
leaving  him  his  foundling  again  in  one  of  her  tragi-comic 
rages,  his  rum  old  Laura,  raw  from  conflict  with  life  and 
Aunt  Adela. 

She  must  be  smoothed  down!  .  .  .  She  must  be 
smoothed  down  at  once!  .  .  . 

"Here,  dry  up,  Laura,"  he  advised  her,  "and  don't  talk 
so  much.  You're  right,  it's  getting  too  dark  to  read. 
Come  on  out  with  me  and  eat  spaghetti  on  the  pavement. 
They  say  that's  the  thing  to  do  when  there's  a  moon." 

For  an  open-mouthed  moment  she  stared  at  him:  then, 
with  a  comprehension  of  his  change  of  attitude  that  was 
uncanny,  controlled  herself,  controlled  her  choking  need  of 
a  good  cry,  nodded  cheerfully,  and  ran  upstairs  for  her 
hat,  her  old  straw  hat  at  the  bottom  of  her  trunk  that  she 
had  not  meant  to  wear  in  Italy. 

It  was  going  to  be  all  right.  .  .  .  He  was  going  to  under- 
stand. .  .  .  He  was  going  to  be  himself  again  ...  if  she 
only  kept  quiet  and  wore  her  old  clothes  .  .  .  Oh,  all  ye 
works  of  the  Lord,  bless  ye  the  Lord!  .  .  .  She  dashed 
downstairs. 

It  was  a  cloudless  night.  The  macaroni  was  delicious. 
The  clang  of  the  trams  was  like  Eastern  music.  Laura 
was  quiet  and  sweet.  Justin  found  that  he  was  enjoying 
himself,  and  was  moved  to  tell  all  about  his  tour  around 
the  world,  and  she  was  deeply  interested  and  asked  extraor- 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  103 

dinarily  intelligent  questions,  and  there  was  no  shadow 
upon  them  any  more,  save  the  shadow  of  the  great  cathedral, 
black  and  white  and  wonderful  under  the  moon. 

It  was  late  when  they  came  back  to  an  amused,  forsaken 
Mrs.  Cloud,  and  were  eloquent  for  half  an  hour  upon  moon- 
light and  macaroni  and  Milan. 

And  Justin  said  good-night  to  Laura  and  shook  hands 
with  her  properly  instead  of  grunting  off  to  bed  as  he 
generally  did.  He  said  she  was  to  sleep  well.  She  said 
she  would. 

Yet  the  dawn  a  few  hours  later,  nosing  damply  in  be- 
tween Venetian  blinds,  surprised  Laura,  with  wet  brushes 
and  a  determined  mouth,  still  hard  at  work  before  her 
looking-glass,  brushing,  brushing,  brushing  the  vanity  out 
of  her  splendid  hair. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

MAN  generalizes,  woman  defines. 

Woman — she  will  nurse  Tom  through  small-pox,  flirt 
outrageously  with  Dick,  and  sell  her  soul  for  Harry  and 
enjoy  doing  it;  but  refer  to  them,  Tom,  Dick  and  Harry, 
with  collective  benevolence  as  'humanity,'  and  she  yawns. 
She  is  not  an  altruist.  She  does  not  love  in  the  lump. 
She  lives  her  seventy  odd  years  for  the  sake  of — how  many 
people?  There  would  be  a  question  for  her  fellow-man! 
If  he  whittle  down  the  tally  of  his  dear  folk,  his  allies,  his 
indispensables,  just  at  which  notch  will  his  knife  blunt,  will 
his  hand  shake  and  refuse  service  ?  How  many  loves  could 
he  deny  to  save — how  many?  But  you  cannot  imagine 
woman  discomposed  by  such  a  problem. 

He  and  she  sit  over  the  fire  she  has  built,  and  she  listens 
with  breathless  interest  to  his  schemes  for  the  betterment 
of  the  world,  while  the  rest  of  its  inhabitants  drift  in  and 
out  of  her  indifferent  ken  like  the  snow-flakes'  indistin- 
guishable millions  drifting  past  her  window-panes.  Yet 
this  indifference  is  less  selfishness  than  an  armour  assumed. 
Like  any  hermit  crab  she  must  borrow  a  shell  for  her  ex- 
cursions because  she  knows  herself  a  soft-bodied  creature, 
impressed  so  easily  by  all  the  other  people  of  the  world 
who,  she  asserts  passionately,  never  can  or  shall  impress 
her.  She  is,  nevertheless,  vaguely  enlightened  when  she  re- 
turns, changed  a  little  in  spite  of  herself,  her  armour 
dinted,  taught  at  least  where  it  was  weakest,  if  her  fellow- 
man  acclaim  the  improvement.  Then  there  was,  after  all, 
she  supposes,  if  she  be  eighteen  and  Laura,  some  use  in  all 
those  other  people  who  did  not  interest  her  .  .  .  educa- 
tional. .  .  .  That,  looking  back  might  have  been  the  use 
and  excuse  for  Oliver  Seton.  He  had  certainly  taught 

104 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  105 

her  a  lesson  or  two  for  which  she  had  been  anything  but 
grateful  at  the  time.  A  stupid  man.  .  .  .  She  could  still 
go  pink,  years  later,  when  she  thought,  as  she  seldom  did, 
of  him  and  his  stupidity.  Poor  Oliver! 

From  the  first  she  was  prejudiced  against  him.  The 
travelling  companions  had  been  in  Florence  ten  soft  blue 
days,  and  Florence,  with  her  palaces  and  wistaria  and 
agate-coloured  river,  welcomed  them,  was  kind,  almost  as 
kind  as  Mrs.  Cloud,  whose  thrice-blessed  headaches  came 
on  regularly  every  other  day  or  so  at  nine  in  the  morning, 
and  were  always  over  by  tea-time.  You  might  almost 
imagine  that  Florence  and  Mrs.  Cloud,  those  two  beautiful 
old  women,  had  talked  things  over. 

''Delighted,  my  dear!  Just  you  leave  them  to  me. 
You'll  stay  at  home,  of  course?" 

"I  suppose  I'd  better " 

"Young  folk,  my  dear!" 

"Oh,  I  do  so  like  to  hear  them  talking,"  says  Mrs. 
Cloud  wistfully. 

"So  do  I — always  did.  I  remember  listening,  just  such 
a  spring  as  this  it  was — the  almonds  blossomed  early — and 
— '  Sandro, '  she  says,  like  a  bird — '  Sandro ! '  and  throws  a 
tulip  to  him  over  the  garden  wall.  You  know  my  little 
wild  tulips?" 

Mrs.  Cloud  knows  them. 

"Dear,  dear,  how  it  brings  things  back!  But  I  shut 
all  my  eyes.  Two  was  company  even  then.  Why,  you 
yourself,  only  yesterday " 

Mrs.  Cloud  has  such  a  pretty  laugh. 

"He  brought  you  an  armful  of  those  very  same  tulips — 
my  tulips.  Do  you  remember?" 

"I  remember "  says  Mrs.  Cloud. 

Justin  and  Laura,  of  course,  were  no  match  for  those 
conspirators,  Florence  and  Mrs.  Cloud  and  Mrs.  Cloud's 
headaches;  though  Justin  was  all  anxiety  and  eau-de- 
cologne,  and  Laura  was  sure  she  ought  to  stay  at  home  as 
nurse.  It  appeared,  however,  that  what  Mrs.  Cloud 


106  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

needed  was  Absolute  Quiet — and  I  am  afraid  that  when 
the  novelty  wore  off  Absolute  Quiet  was  her  portion,  for 
Florence  more  than  kept  her  promises,  and,  as  Justin  said, 
he  didn't  want  his  mother  to  overtire  herself.  Of  course  it 
was  the  travelling — because  she  never  used  to  have  these 
headaches. 

Dear  Mrs.  Cloud !  If  ever  there  were  a  woman  without 

guile And  yet,  you  know,  I  cannot  quite  believe  in 

Mrs.  Cloud's  headaches. 

But  Justin  and  Laura  believed  in  them  implicitly,  and 
brought  her  back  menthol  and  aspirin  from  the  English 
chemist's,  and,  that  she  might  know  what  they  had 
been  doing,  all  the  fat  little  catalogues  that  Justin  carried, 
as  it  were  card-cases,  when  he  paid  his  calls  upon 
Florence. 

For  Justin  was  never  happy  without  a  catalogue.  It 
annoyed  him  sometimes  that  Laura  had  such  a  trick  of  pro- 
nouncing upon  pictures  without  looking  at  the  labels  first. 
She  had  stood  him  out  once  that  Sandro's  Simonetta  was 
nevertheless  by  some  one  else — who  it  was  she  did  not  care, 
and  she  never  remembered  names.  He  looked  it  up  and 
proved  her  wrong,  and  then,  you  know,  she  turned  out  to  be 
right  after  all — one  of  those  unsettling  footnotes.  "Then 
why  have  it  labelled  '  Botticelli '  ? "  he  demanded,  and  Laura 
laughed.  What  did  it  matter  as  long  as  the  picture  were 
there?  But  it  worried  Justin.  He  liked  things  done 
decently  and  in  order.  Laura's  irreverences  upset  him. 
And  yet,  one  morning,  when  Mrs.  Cloud's  headache  was 
more  genuine  than  usual  and  Laura  did  stay  behind,  he 
found  Florence  dull,  as  dull  as  the  world  when  he  had 
travelled  round  it.  He  came  home  to  lunch  inclined  to 
think  that  they  might  as  well  be  moving  on — what  about 
Verona?  It  took  an  afternoon's  prowl  in  back  streets, 
two  arguments  with  Laura,  and  a  sixteenth-century  cabi- 
net, an  absolute  find — dirt  cheap — the  very  thing  for  his 
eggs — completely  to  restore  him. 

But  you  can  understand,  if  you  are  ever  to  understand 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  107 

Laura  at  all,  how  deliriously  beneath  her  sedateness  she 
was  enjoying  herself :  can  guess  at  her  dismay  when  Justin 
addressed  her  one  morning — 

' '  I  say !  'member  Oliver  ? ' ' 

"Oliver?  Oliver?"  She  frowned  uncertainly.  The 
name  was  as  familiar  as  the  pink  clouds  of  almond  blossom 
in  the  courtyard  below,  that  reminded  her  every  day  of  the 
tree  under  Justin's  window-seat.  You  could  reach  out  and 
pull  in  a  twig  to  sniff  as  you  read  Justin's  books  .  .  .  the 
Rackhams — the  Arabian  Nights.  Oh,  of  course.  .  .  . 

"You  mean  to  say  you  don't  remember  Oliver?"  Justin 
was  opening  his  eyes  widely  at  her  over  the  letter  he  was 
reading.  He  always  opened  his  eyes  where  most  people 
would  lift  an  eyebrow,  which  gave  his  simplest  question  an 
air  of  reproachful  surprise  that  put  you  quite  unneces- 
sarily on  the  defensive.  If  you  didn't  know  the  answer 
you  felt  guilty.  But  Laura  was  able  to  run  back  across 
the  years  to  Justin  with  a  laugh. 

"Does  he — is  he  the  one  that  will  call  you  Camaralza- 
man?" 

Justin  laughed  too. 

"Rum  kid  you  were.  Yes.  He  always  enquires  after 
the  harem.  He  won't  know  you  again." 

Laura's  eyebrows  were  under  no  disabilities. 

"Oh,  because  he's  here,"  he  answered  them.  "This 
letter's  been  trotting  after  me  for  weeks.  Wish  I'd  known. 
We  might  have  been  bummelling  about  together  all  this 
time,"  he  concluded  regretfully. 

"So  we  might ! ' '    Her  tone  matched  his  to  a  nicety. 

"We  must  look  him  up  first  thing.  Mother,  you've  got 
to  come.  You  remember  Oliver?  It's  funny  we've  not 
run  into  him.  He's  copying  at  the  Uffizi." 

"Oh!  He  paints!"  Laura  ruffled  up  into  the  com- 
ically aggressive  interest  that  an  artist  or  a  gamecock  or 
a  pretty  woman  will  always  display  when  a  fellow  pro- 
fessional is  mentioned.  "Is  he  any  good?" 

"  'Is  he  any  good!'  "  Justin  ruffled  in  his  turn.    He 


108  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

was  always  easily  moved  on  behalf  of  his  dearest  friend 
of  the  hour  and  he  had  your  plain  man's  instinctive  and 
unbounded  admiration  for  the  creative  gift.  He  had  also 
his  nai've  conviction  that  its  obverse,  the  critical  faculty, 
must  nevertheless  be  in  himself.  "Of  course,  I  don't  pre- 
tend to  know  anything  about  painting,"  Justin  would  pre- 
pare you,  "but  I  know  what  I  like,  you  know!"  But  thus 
guided  he  was  certainly  safer  than  most,  for  he  had  an 
enviable  habit  of  liking  the  right  things.  It  was  as  if  he 
proved  all  art  with  the  touchstone  of  his  own  unconscious 
honesty.  Now  Laura  could  not  help  persuading  herself  to 
like  what  Justin  liked  because  Justin  liked  it.  She  had 
resigned  herself  to  admiring  Oliver,  though  she  was  sure 
that  she  never  should,  before  Justin  had  finished,  his 
eulogy. 

"Whom  is  he  under?"  she  demanded. 

"Oh,  he's  on  his  own  now,  of  course.  I  tell  you  he's  a 
big  pot.  He  was  at  the  Slade  though,  I  believe." 

"Oh?  Oh,  I  knew  some  Slade  people  in  Paris."  And 
then,  because  she  could  not  help  it — ' '  Their  paint 's  awfully 
muddy. ' ' 

Justin  was  deep  in  his  letter  again,  but  he  came  to  the 
surface  for  a  moment  to  say  paternally — 

"Oh,  of  course!  You  sketch  yourself  a  bit,  don't  you? 
You  must  get  him  to  give  you  some  tips. ' ' 

And  she  with  a  letter  in  her  pocket  at  that  moment, 
a  cordial  letter,  an  almost  anxiously  enquiring  letter,  from 
Monsieur  La  Motte !  But  naturally,  or,  if  you  were  a  man, 
oddly  enough,  it  was  not  Justin  but  Oliver  Seton  whom  she 
wanted  to  shake. 

"Is  he  really  nice ?  Did  you  like  him ? ' '  she  asked  Mrs. 
Cloud  when  Justin  had  left  the  room.  He  never  sat  out 
other  people's  breakfast. 

Mrs.  Cloud  wore  her  quaintly  unhappy  look.  She  dis- 
liked discussing  any  one  whom  she  could  not  whole-heart- 
edly praise.  But  Laura  had  a  way  of  dragging  Mrs. 
Cloud's  opinions  out  of  her  that  Mrs.  Cloud,  always  re- 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  109 

sisting,  nevertheless  enjoyed  almost  as  much  as  she  en- 
joyed her  son's  invariable  assumption  that  they  must  be 
the  same  as  his  own. 

' '  He 's  a  very  clever  young  man.  And  we  must  be  pleas- 
ant to  him,  Laura,  for  Justin's  sake." 

"Ah,  I  thought  you  didn't,"  said  Laura,  with  satisfac- 
tion. ' '  Now  what  exactly  is  it — conceit  ? ' ' 

But  Mrs.  Cloud  said  that  Laura  must  finish  her  coffee, 
because  the  poor  waiter  was  obviously  wanting  to  clear 
away. 

Now  it  must  be  confessed  that  if  Mrs.  Cloud  and  Laura 
shared  a  prejudice  against  that  rising  young  artist,  Oliver 
Weathersby  Seton,  the  fault  was  as  little  theirs  as  his. 
Mrs.  Cloud  could  have  forgiven  the  inconsequence  of  his 
manner  (she  was  not  to  know  that  he  was  'Weathercock 
Seton'  to  his  intimates),  and  Laura  would  have  admitted 
that  her  memory  of  a  long  boy  who  laughed  at  her  and 
talked  with  his  hands  was  pleasant  enough,  if  Justin,  in  the 
openness  of  his  heart,  had  not  held  forth  quite  so  ener- 
getically upon  his  tempermental  friend.  Oliver  was  so 
brilliant,  so  impulsive,  so  affectionate,  the  quaintest  of 
companions,  the  jolliest  of  merry-andrews !  Justin  could 
not  help  admiring  a  character  so  different  from  his  own  in 
pace  if  not  in  quality:  and  the  more  he  dwelt  upon  it,  the 
more  deeply  interested  in  his  own  admiration  he  grew, 
until  he  worked  himself  up  in  the  course  of  the  morning 
from  a  moderate  sense  of  friendship  to  a  state  of  enthusi- 
asm as  gratifying  to  himself — for  his  temperate  nature 
enjoyed  a  rousing — as  it  was  depressing  to  his  women- 
folk. There  is  no  doubt  that  excessive  praise  of  other  peo- 
ple is  hard  to  bear. 

There  was  time  enough,  however,  while  they  lost  them- 
selves and  each  other  in  the  honeycomb  of  the  Uffizi,  and 
met  again  unexpectedly  as  they  hunted  down  Oliver,  for 
Laura  to  be  firm  with  herself,  to  scout  this  ridiculous 
notion  of  sticking  up  her  chin  at  him.  Mrs.  Cloud  was 
right.  ...  Of  course  she  must  make  herself  perfectly 


110  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

charming  to  Justin's  friend  .  .  .  because,  though  she  was 
certain  to  disapprove  of  him,  it  was  absolutely  necessary 
that  he  should  approve  of  her.  .  .  .  Suppose  he  didn't  like 
her  .  .  .  said  sneery  things  about  her  to  Justin!  .  .  . 
Justin  was  so  easily  influenced.  .  .  .  Was  he?  She  pulled 
herself  up  short.  Was  he  ?  She  had  never  thought  of  that 
before.  Yet  here  she  was  taking  it  for  granted!  .  .  .  And 
it  was  perfectly  true.  ...  He  was  as  hard  as  nails  .  .  . 
you  could  not  persuade  him  to  anything  face  to  face  .  .  . 
but  you  could  drop  a  notion  into  his  ear,  and  in  a  week 
it  would  leaven  the  lump  of  him.  .  .  .  She  knew  it.  She 
had  always  known  it.  She  wondered  how  she  knew? 

She  trailed  out  of  that  room  (she  had  lost  the  Clouds 
again)  to  find  herself  in  a  long  remote  corridor  that  she 
had  not  seen  before.  In  a  corner  to  her  right  a  man  stood 
and  painted. 

Was  this  Oliver?  She  could  not  see  his  face,  but  she 
thought  it  probable.  He  was  young,  and  though  his 
clothes  were  Latin  Quarter  French,  he  wore  them  like  an 
Englishman,  an  Englishman  pretending  that  he  was  not 
in  fancy  dress. 

She  drew  nearer.  She  was  herself  too  hardened  to  an 
audience  to  be  chary  of  watching  him,  but  she  was  amused 
and  faintly  contemptuous  when  she  saw  how  instantly  he 
was  embarrassed.  He  had  been  absorbed  in  his  work,  his 
good  work,  as  she  critically  admitted.  Justin  was  right — 
the  man  could  paint.  She  had  never  seen  a  better  copy, 
unless,  indeed,  it  had  too  vigorous  a  life  of  its  own.  She 
sympathized.  This  was  no  commission.  She  guessed  him 
a  penitent,  at  her  own  trick  of  subduing  the  artistic  flesh. 
She  observed  that  he  had  pet  brushes.  If  this  were  Oliver, 
she  might  like  him  after  all.  .  .  . 

And  then,  as  I  told  you,  he  became  aware  of  her,  and 
began,  like  any  child,  to  show  off.  He  did  not  turn:  he 
remained  elaborately  unconscious;  but  he  intensified  him- 
self. She  could  not  help  laughing.  The  breathless  pause, 
the  poised  brush,  the  accurate  dab,  the  hasty  retreat  and 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  111 

long  absorbed  stare,  the  frantic  rattle  through  his  paint- 
box for  the  unnecessary  tube,  it  was  all  familiar  comedy: 
she  had  played  it  herself  in  her  first  nervous  week  at  the 
Louvre.  But  he,  at  twenty-five — if  he  were  Oliver  he  must 
be  quite  twenty-five — could  not  possibly  be  nervous  any 
more.  ...  It  was  pose,  pure  pose,  very  funny  to  watch. 
...  So  that  was  Oliver !  She  shrugged  her  shoulders  and 
strolled  on. 

She  would,  perhaps,  have  had  her  expressive  mouth  more 
under  control  had  she  realized  that  a  dark  canvas  and  a 
sheet  of  glass  are  an  excellent  substitute  for  a  mirror. 

She  glanced  at  her  watch.  She  and  Justin  had  their 
established  rendezvous,  but  it  was  early  yet.  If  this  were 
Oliver,  Justin  and  his  mother  would  find  him  sooner  or 
later.  ...  It  would  have  saved  time  if  Oliver  had  had 
the  sense  to  say  what  he  was  copying.  .  .  .  Justin,  with  an 
indulgent  smile,  had  said  that  the  omission  was  just  like 
Oliver — "Head  in  the  clouds  as  usual.  You  know  what 
these  geniuses  are."  Genius!  .  .  .  What  would  Justin 
have  said  if  any  one  else  had  sent  them  trapesing  up  and 
down  these  endless  rooms?  She,  Laura,  did  not  mind  for 
herself,  of  course,  but  poor  Mrs.  Cloud  would  be  done  up. 
.  .  .  Even  she  was  not  sorry  to  rest  for  a  moment.  .  .  . 

She  sat  down  thankfully  on  a  student's  deserted  stool. 
It  was  a  warm,  lax  day  and  she  was,  in  truth,  a  little  dazed 
and  overborne  by  the  bright  colours  and  echoing  rooms  and 
the  familiar,  indescribable  odour  that  is  the  breath  of 
painted  pictures,  crowded  hundreds  of  pictures,  hundreds 
of  years  old.  She  had  only  to  shut  her  eyes  to  be  in  Paris 
...  in  her  painting  apron.  .  .  . 

She  shut  them. 

She  did  not  actually  drowse.  She  was  aware  of  the  dis- 
comfort of  her  hard  seat,  of  herself  perched  stiffly  upon  it, 
and  of  the  eternal,  far-away  confusion  of  footsteps  that 
ticked  and  tapped  and  clattered  as  if  the  great  building 
were  the  home  of  all  the  timepieces  in  the  world;  but  she 
was  indifferent,  bound  by  that  pleasant,  trancelike  numb- 


112  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

ness  that  will  overtake  you  sometimes  in  church,  or  in  the 
corner  seat  of  an  express.  Not  an  inch  of  her  wanted  to 
stir  again :  she  would  murder  any  one  who  disturbed  her  in 
the  next  hundred  years,  if  murder  were  not  so  energetic 
a  business.  Her  mind  dwelt  with  infinite  contentment  on 
a  memory  it  had  preserved  of  a  donor's  robe  that  had 
caught  her  eye,  shining  out  of  some  dreary  acre  of  canvas 
like  a  geranium  in  a  slum  window.  The  colour  made  her 
purr  as  she  thought  of  it.  The  sun,  who  never  waited  for 
the  blinds '-man  to  finish  his  lunch,  had  arrived  at  the  un- 
protected window  behind  her,  and  was  kissing  the  back  of 
her  neck.  She  was  as  contented  as  a  cat,  and  it  was 
unforgivable  of  some  one,  some  brawler  at  the  other  end 
of  the  world,  to  knock  over  a  paint-box  and  scrape  back 
a  stool  and  come  tearing  past  her  like  a  wind,  shouting — 

"Here!  Hi!  Here,  I  say!  Cloud!  Justin,  old  man! 
Well  now,  isn't  this  jolly?" 

She  opened  her  eyes  and  rubbed  them  crossly,  as  a  child 
does  when  a  you  rouse  it  too  suddenly  from  sleep.  What 
was  the  fuss  now?  Oh,  there  were  the  Clouds  at  last  .  .  . 
and  the  man — her  eyes  sulked  up  the  room  to  where  the 
painter  had  been  standing — then  the  man  was  Oliver.  .  .  . 

What  an  unnecessary  noise  he  was  making!  .  .  .  And 
that  was  the  third  time  he  had  shaken  hands  with  Justin 
.  .  .  both  hands  ...  So  affected.  .  .  .  His  hair  was  too 
thin  to  wear  fluffed  out,  just  like  all  the  little  students. 
.  .  .  Now  he  was  shaking  hands  again !  .  .  .  She  wondered 
that  Justin  stood  it.  But  Justin  was  looking  so 
pleased.  .  .  . 

She  did  not  go  up  to  them.  She  sat  still  on  her  stool  and 
watched  with  a  disapproval  that  grew  like  a  beanstalk. 
He,  Oliver,  was  handsome,  she  supposed,  if  you  admired  the 
type  that  cried  out  for  gold  ear-rings  and  a  razor.  .  .  . 
She  didn't  .  .  .  The  man  wasn't  still  a  moment.  .  .  .  He 
talked  with  his  whole  body.  .  .  .  She  could  hear  scraps: 

"My  dearest  fellow Well,  I  was  going  on,  but  now 

you've  some Piece  of  luck Tell  you  what  old 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  113 

man Oh,  my  dear  soul "  One  of  these  Italianate, 

epithetical  people.  .  .  .  She  knew  she  shouldn  't  get  on  with 
him.  .  .  .  She  wondered  how  much  longer  Justin  would  be 
content  to  stand  there,  beaming  and  button-holed. 

And  then  Mrs.  Cloud  caught  sight  of  her,  and  this  Oliver 
person  had  given  her  a  quick  amused  look  and  said  some- 
thing to  Justin  as  they  all  moved  up  the  gallery  towards 
her  and  she  came  down  to  them. 

There  were  introductions.  Oliver  gave  her  the  pro- 
longed and  peculiarly  earnest  handshake  which  implied 
that  his  whole  eager  nature  leaped  to  welcome  the  friend 
of  his  friend,  and  turning  back  to  Justin  instantly  forgot 
all  about  her.  He  exhibited  his  copy  to  them,  and  told 
them  how  good  it  was,  and  what  a  great  many  people  whom 
they  did  not  know  had  said  about  it.  His  vanity  was  so 
fresh  and  real,  so  unadulterated  by  false  modesty,  that 
Laura  should  have  humoured  him.  But  she  was  too  young, 
I  suppose,  to  find  it  charming.  It  is  curious  how  intolerant 
youth  always  remains  of  that  youthfullest  of  sins.  She 
listened,  however,  with  merciless  attention,  as  he  talked 
them  out  of  the  gallery  and  down  the  staircase  and  along 
the  street  to  a  restaurant.  When  they  all  sat  down  to- 
gether to  lunch  he  was  still  talking,  and  Mrs.  Cloud  had 
said  but  half-a-dozen  words  and  Laura  not  one. 

It  was  not  until  the  meal  was  nearly  over  that  he  became 
aware,  with  the  uncanny  sensitiveness  of  the  egoist,  that 
his  circle  was  incomplete,  that  some  one,  somewhere,  was 
not  fully  appreciating  him.  It  could  not  be  Mrs.  Cloud 
.  .  .  because  he  openly  adored  Mrs.  Cloud,  and  had  al- 
ways been  grievous  that  she  would  not  let  him  paint  her. 
.  .  .  (How  should  he  dream,  when  admiringly  he  had  tried 
to  tease  her  into  consent,  that  the  pretty  faint  colour  in 
her  cheek  was  not  a  flush  of  pleasure,  that  Mrs.  Cloud  was 
one  of  those  rare  women  who  honestly  believe  themselves 
to  be  plain.)  He  did  not  quite  understand  her,  he  ad- 
mitted ;  but  he  knew  he  was  a  favourite,  because  she  always 
welcomed  him  so  kindly.  ...  It  could  not  be  Mrs.  Cloud 


114  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

who  was  obstructing  Mm.  .  .  .  Remained  the  girl  with  the 
red  hair,  and,  as  she  lifted  them,  the  eyes.  .  .  . 

At  once  he  turned  to  her  with  that  intimate  abruptness, 
that  serene  assumption  of  her  interest  in  him  that  was, 
Laura  began  to  understand,  his  chief  Charm  for  Justin, 
who  always  needed  helping  over  his  preliminaries.  Justin, 
she  observed  through  her  lashes,  waited,  smiling,  for  her 
answer,  sure  that  she,  too,  must  be  finding  this  Oliver 
irresistible.  It  would  certainly  have  soothed  her  to 
realize  that  he  was  anticipating  with  equal  satisfaction  her 
own  effect  upon  Oliver ;  but  she  never  dreamed  that  he  was 
proud  of  her.  How  should  she,  when  he  did  not  know  it 
himself?  Yet  he  must  have  been,  for  he  found  himself 
distinctly  irritated  when  he  heard  Laura  tell  Oliver  that 
she  thought  Florence  was  very  nice.  He  felt  that  she  was 
not  doing  herself  justice. 

' '  Nice ! ! "    Oliver  rose  like  a  trout  to  that  fly. 

"Don't  you?"    Laura  looked  surprised. 

He  drew  eloquent  breath. 

"  'Nice!'  Dear  lady,  we're  speaking  of  Florence — 
Buondelmonte's  Florence — Dante's  Florence — Fiorenza, 

dentro  dalla  cerchia  antica Don 't  you  realize  ?  They 

walked  and  talked  out  in  that  square.  From  where  we 
sit  we  can  see  Savonarola  burn.  This  isn't  a  town.  It's 
Florence,  watering  her  flowers  with  heart's  blood  these 
thousand  years." 

"That's  right,  old  man,"  Justin  encouraged  him. 

"But  it's  a  nice  place  now,  don't  you  think?"  said 
Laura. 

Mrs.  Cloud  drank  some  coffee  hurriedly. 

"And  I  never  dreamed  the  shops  would  be  so  good. 
Ripping  hats!"  Laura's  candid  eyes  assured  Oliver  how 
pleased  she  was  to  join  with  him  in  praising  Florence. 

But  Justin  protested:  he  felt  that  Laura  was  being  un- 
usual. He  had  never  seen  her  in  such  mood  before,  and  he 
didn't  like  it. 

"Laura,  you've  not  been  in  once  since  we  came!" 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  115 

"Oh,  but  I've  wanted  to."  She  answered  him  with  the 
smile  and  the  look  that  was  his  due :  and  then,  ' '  There 's  a 
hat  in  that  street  where  we  got  the  cabinet — with  thistles 
on  it — a  dream " 

The  change  of  tone  as  she  spoke  to  him  was  too  subtle 
for  Justin's  ear;  but  Oliver  looked  across  at  her  with  sud- 
den curiosity. 

"Why — why "  he  began. 

"Florence  even  provides  for  donkeys,  doesn't  she,  Mr. 
Seton?"  Laura  nodded  to  him  with  the  ingenuous,  air 
that  he  was  beginning  to  suspect.  But  Justin  interrupted. 

"I  think,"  he  meditated  paternally,  "it's  rather  rot  for 
you  to  go  mistering  Oliver.  He  knew  you  when  you  were  a 
kid — isn't  it,  Mother?"  He  turned  to  Mrs.  Cloud  and  so 
missed  Laura's  frown. 

But  Oliver  was  quicker. 

"I  say,  Justin!"  he  exclaimed,  "she  doesn't  want  to. 
She  doesn  't  like  me.  Quick !  Look  at  her !  Did  you  ever 
see  anything  so  hostile?" 

Justin  turned  to  the  inspection.  And  Laura,  naturally, 
grew  scarlet.  She  was  furious.  It  was  so  perfectly  true. 
.  .  .  She  couldn't  bear  the  man.  ...  A  type  she  detested. 
...  a  caricature  of  herself.  .  .  .  But  if  she  didn't  like 
him,  it  was  no  business  of  his  to  find  it  out.  ...  It  was 
cheek  to  challenge  her  in  that  way  ...  to  make  her  look 
a  fool.  .  .  .  She  wouldn't  stand  it.  ... 

Here  Oliver,  watching  her  delightedly,  fanned  the  flame. 

"There — the  colour — d'you  see?  Now  isn't  that  inter- 
esting? Because  everybody  likes  me,  don't  they,  Justin? 
don't  they,  Mrs.  Cloud?  And  now,  I  remember,  you 
sniffed  at  my  stuff  this  morning.  I  saw  you  in  the  glass. 
Now  why,  Miss  Valentine,  now  why?" 

"Oh,  what  nonsense!"  That,  of  course,  is  what  she 
should  have  said.  That,  she  knew  perfectly  well,  is  what 
she  should  have  said.  But  the  politenesses  had  gone  from 
her.  She  answered  like  the  furious  child  she  was. 

"You  pose,"  said  Miss  Valentine. 


116  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

"I  swear  I  don't!"    Oliver  sat  up. 

"I  say,  Laura!"  Justin  warned  her. 

"He  does,  Justin.  I  watched  him  before  you  came.  Oh, 
you  know  you  do."  She  faced  Oliver  accusingly.  "You 
were  varnishing :  you  didn  't  want  all  that  gamboge.  Now, 
did  you?" 

Suddenly  Oliver,  who  was  sweet-tempered,  began  to 
laugh  guiltily. 

"I  believe  she's  right!     Justin — I  believe  she's  right!" 

"Yes — and  knocking  over  your  easel  to  look  excited, 
and — "  she  thought  she  might  as  well  be  hung  for  a  sheep 
as  for  a  lamb — ' '  and  shaking  hands  four  times  running  and 
saying  to  me  that  I  didn't  like  you — like  that.  When 
you're  a  little  boy  it's  being  enfant  terrible  and  funny,  but 
when  you're  grown-up  it's  just  pose." 

"Now,  look  here — Laura!"  Oliver  planted  his  elbows 
squarely  on  the  table. 

"Yes — Oliver!"     She  met  his  twinkling  eyes  stubbornly. 

"If  you  please,  what  did  you  call  Florence  just  now?" 

"It  is  a  very  nice  place,"  she  defended  herself.  There 
might  or  might  not  have  been  a  dimpling  of  the  austere 
lines  of  her  mouth. 

"And  you  talked  about  hat-shops." 

The  dimple  was  unmistakable.  There  were  even  signs  of 
a  second  one. 

' '  You  know  what  I  'm  driving  at  ? "  he  insisted. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Laura. 

"Well,  then— wasn't  it?" 

"Wasn't  it  what?"  said  Justin. 

She  looked  from  one  to  another. 

"Pose!"  said  Laura  as  meekly  as  you  please. 


CHAPTER  XV 

I  WONDER,  Collaborator,  if  you  are  out  of  humour  with 
Laura?  She  has  been,  in  the  last  chapter,  a  trifle — 
how  shall  we  say? — touchy — ungracious — narrow-hearted? 
has  shown  herself  a  supercilious  chit? 

If  you  thought  so,  there  was  one  person  at  least  in  entire 
and  most  penitent  agreement  with  you.  Laura,  at  the  eve- 
ning ceremonial  her  mother  had  taught  her,  that  she  had 
never  foregone — Laura,  with  her  Bible  and  her  good  little 
books,  holding  her  day  in  review,  had  already  used  every 
adjective  that  you  offer  me,  over  and  over  again,  in  a  be- 
wilderment at  her  own  curmudgeonry  that  I,  for  one,  find  a 
little  laughable  and  still  more  pathetic.  She  had  her 
standards  of  conduct  set  up  like  ninepins,  and  when  her 
adolescence  knocked  them  over,  who  so  puzzled  as  Laura? 

She  read  at  random — 

A  continual  dropping  on  a  very  rainy  day  and  a  conten- 
tious woman  are  alike. 

"Ah!"  thought  Laura,  heavily. 

A  gracious  woman  retaineth  honour  .  .  .  like  Mrs. 
Cloud  .  .  .  grave  and  sweet,  even  when  she  didn't  like  the 
Seton  man  a  bit  ...  Now  why  couldn't  she,  Laura,  have 
behaved  beautifully  like  that.  .  .  .  instead  of  saying  what 
she  thought?  .  .  .  Yet  wasn't  it  hypocritical  not  to  say 
what  one  thought?  What  a  muddle  it  was!  .  .  .  But  she 
was  sure  she  had  been  wrong,  simply  because  she  felt  it  in 
her  bones.  When  the  moralities  failed  her  she  always 
trusted  to  her  bones.  Ah,  well,  she  must  make  up  for  it 
tomorrow!  .  .  .  She  could  always  make  people  like  her  if 
she  tried  .  .  .  and  Mr.  Seton  had  really  been  quite  decent. 
.  .  .  He  might  have  taken  offence,  and  then  Justin  would 
have  been  furious.  .  .  .  There  was  no  reason  but  a  Dr. 

117 


118  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

Fell  reason  for  disliking  Oliver  Seton,  was  there?  Or  was 
there?  .  .  .  She  went  to  sleep  unsatisfied. 

Yet,  had  she  read  on  a  page  or  two,  she  would  have 
found  her  answer,  the  answer  written  for  her  three  thou- 
sand years  ago — 

Who  is  able  to  stand  before  jealousy f 

If  Solomon  could  not,  with  all  his  experience,  isn't 
there  some  slight  excuse  for  Laura  Valentine  ? 

But  she  was  a  good  girl  in  the  days  that  followed  and 
a  baffling  one  to  Oliver  Seton,  who  had  delightedly  fore- 
seen squally  weather.  He  enjoyed  quarrelling  with  a 
pretty  woman.  But  he  soon  agreed  to  agree  with  a  dove- 
like  Laura,  and  so  well  that  Justin  was  gratified.  For  it 
had  seemed  to  Justin,  till  she  and  Oliver  between  them 
disturbed  him,  that  Laura  was  already  greatly  improved. 
His  idea  of  a  woman,  in  those  dogmatical  days,  was  the 
ideal  of  Mr.  Edmund  Sparkler,  and  Laura,  since  the  eve- 
ning in  Milan  that  appeared  already  far  away,  was  daily 
more  completely  fulfilling  it.  If  she  had  been  his  favourite 
armchair,  at  arm's  length  from  his  bookshelves  and  the 
back  to  the  light,  she  could  not  have  suited  him  better. 
And,  appreciating  her,  he  was  pleased  that  his  friend 
should  appreciate  her  also,  and  she  his  friend.  He  had 
been  worried  by  their  first  inimical  encounter.  Oliver  he 
knew  for  a  weathercock;  but  Laura's  opinions,  negligible 
as  he  felt  them  to  be,  had  always  their  effect  on  him :  had, 
until  he  accounted  for  them,  a  singular  and  uneasy  effect 
upon  him,  as  of  undigested  apples.  That  Laura,  with  no 
nonsense  about  her,  had  seen  fit  to  withdraw  her  objections, 
was  a  real  if  unrealized  relief.  That  Laura,  chattering 
nineteen  to  Oliver's  dozen,  with  that  ardent  and  enthusi- 
astic young  gentleman  securely  attached  to  her  painting- 
apron  strings,  should  like  him  in  her  own  private  heart 
no  whit  the  better,  simply  could  not  occur  to  him. 

But  then  there  was  so  much  that  did  not  occur  to  Justin. 
There  is  an  incident  in  the  lives  of  those  two  friends  of  his 
of  which  he  never  dreamed ;  though  it  took  place  in  the  very 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  119 

shadow  of  his  Roman  nose ;  though  it  rankled  a  long  while, 
quite  three  months,  in  Oliver's  mind  and  to  Laura  was  a 
memory  that  could  still  make  her  ears  burn  when  her 
blushet  days  had  grown  as  thin  and  unreal  to  her  as  the 
pressed  flowers  in  her  Prayer  Book  on  Sundays. 

For  Oliver,  inevitably,  as  Justin  ought  to  have  known 
he  must,  fell  in  love  with  Laura.  They  were  always  to- 
gether. There  is  no  doubt  that  even  in  winter  his  emotions 
were  easy,  and  here  was  spring  herself  waking  daily  in 
Florence  to  wantoner  life.  He  could  not  help  feeling 
poetical  when  the  sun  and  the  bees,  and  now  and  then 
a  butterfly,  strayed  in  at  the  open  doors  of  the  galleries 
and  the  churches  and  the  monasteries  where  he  and  Justin 
attended  to  the  education  of  untravelled  Laura — Justin 
olympically,  Oliver  with  a  growing  conviction  that  she 
could,  if  she  chose,  have  taught  them  both.  She  was  diffi- 
dent— Oliver  wondered  why — but  she  could  be  surprised 
into  illuminating  criticism,  especially  when  Justin  was  out 
of  earshot,  and  Oliver,  in  this  spring  mood  of  his  and  as 
impressionable  as  only  the  sea  or  an  artist  can  be,  was 
quickly  aware  that  she  was  good  for  him.  Justin's  tend- 
ency was  to  classify,  to  lock  doors,  to  enclose ;  but  she  must 
be  ever  querying,  opening,  opening  up  avenues.  She  scat- 
tered questions  like  corn  while  they  were  garnering  their 
conclusions,  and  Oliver  was  amazed  to  find  how  constantly 
those  questions  took  root  in  him,  sprouted  into  new 
thoughts,  fresh,  sturdy,  blossom-bearing.  In  short,  she 
stimulated  him :  set  his  fingers  itching  for  his  brushes.  He 
always  worked  better  when  he  had  a  woman  in  his  head. 

He  planned  a  picture  of  her.  He  was  an  impetuous  per- 
son, and  he  discovered  in  her  profile  and  her  fine  meek  lips 
a  resemblance  to  some  perfectly  amazing  portrait  of  some 
absolutely  superb  woman  by  that  man  who  knocked  every 
other  Florentine  into  a  cocked  hat — what's  his  name? — 
Ghirlandaio.  He  was  quite  sure  it  was  Ghirlandaio:  re- 
membered the  picture:  remembered  its  exact  position  on 
the  left  hand  wall  of Lord !  didn  't  Justin  remember  ? 


120  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

They  spent  a  questing  week  scouring  Florence  for  the 
Ghirlandaio  before  Oliver  remembered  that  it  wasn't  a 
Ghirlandaio  at  all,  but  a  Botticelli  (it  was  a  Botticelli 
year  for  Oliver)  and  that  it  wasn't  in  Florence  either,  but 
in  London. 

"A  background,  my  dear  chap!  a  background — divine! 
My  word,  what  a  blue!  Like  Shelley's  blue  dome!  Like 
Bellini 's  doge — the  blackground,  not  the  doge,  you  chump ! 
Never  seen  it?  My  God,  and  you  live  an  hour  from 
London ! ' ' 

And  then  he  had  raked  down  Brogi's  for  a  copy  and 
brought  it  to  them  in  triumph. 

' '  I  told  you  so !  There  you  are !  No,  they  'd  only  got  a 
postcard.  But  if  you  imagine  the  colour"  (followed  the 
blue  doge),  "it's  the  image.  I've  simply  got  to  paint  her. 
My  word,  what  a  blind  bat  you  are!" 

But  Justin  sat  and  enjoyed  him  non-committally,  as  you 
see  a  sleepy  torn  enjoying  the  permitted  onslaughts  of  a 
terrier  pup. 

"Can't  you  see  it?"  Oliver  worried  at  him.  He  could 
not  be  contented  by  acquiescence.  He  wanted  enthusiasm. 
"The  twin — the  absolute  twin!  It  only  wants  a  slight 
wave  in  her  hair" — (Laura  glanced  sidelong  at  Justin) 
"to  be  a  photograph!" 

Justin,  goaded  into  interest,  stretched  out  a  hand  for  the 
photograph,  examined  and  returned  it. 

"Don't  see  the  faintest  resemblance/'  he  pronounced. 

Oliver's  gesture  implied  that  he  would  have  torn  his 
hair  if  he  could  have  afforded  it. 

"Do  you?"  said  Justin  to  his  Echo. 

"No!"  said  Echo,  through  her  nose,  with  a  clear,  con- 
temptuous little  laugh  that  nettled  Oliver. 

But  he  didn't  guess  how  disappointed  Echo  was.  Echo 
would  have  been  gratified  if  Justin  had  perceived  that  un- 
doubtedly existing  resemblance.  As  it  was,  she  was  merely 
annoyed  with  Oliver  for  making  the  discovery.  If  Justin 
didn't  admire  Laura's  hair,  it  was  certainly  not  Oliver's! 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  121 

business  to  do  so  ...  She  didn't  like  Oliver.  ...  A 
wordy  man.  .  .  . 

But  she  was  obliged  to  let  him  paint  her.  She  had  begun 
by  being  deaf  to  his  persuasions,  for  she  knew  what  sitting 
meant:  she  had  always  been  the  sacrifice  of  her  merciless 
mates  in  the  Rue  Honorine  when  the  model  had  fainted  or 
left  them  in  the  lurch.  But  when  Oliver  appealed  to 
Justin,  and  Justin  opened  his  eyes  at  her,  what  was  she 
to  do? 

Sit  ?  Of  course  she  must  sit !  It  would  be  rather  a  lark. 
They  were  in  for  a  spell  of  rain  and  he  was  sick  of  churches. 
He  always  enjoyed  watching  Oliver  work,  and  besides, 
Oliver  was  so  awfully  keen  to  paint  her.  He  thought  she 
ought  to  be  flattered.  He  would  sit  himself,  like  a  shot,  if 
his  mug  were  any  use  to  Oliver. 

And  so  she  sat  for  them,  in  Oliver's  big  cool  studio  that 
had  been  a  palace  pleasure-room  once  upon  a  time.  The 
rest  of  the  building,  even  its  name,  had  vanished  out  of 
memory,  but  this  one  room  still  stood,  fair  and  lofty  as 
Marina  in  the  bagnio,  amid  the  vile  modern  cubbies  cluster- 
ing against  its  three  walls  like  barnacles  upon  a  shell.  The 
fourth  was  all  windows  and  a  great  glass  door  that  opened 
upon  gardens.  Its  lintel  was  upheld  by  columns  of  pink- 
ish stone,  that  writhed  up  in  foliated  spirals  to  a  crazy 
capital  of  fruits  and  rams'  horns  and  ribands.  In  the 
summer,  said  Oliver,  the  vine  outside  came  clambering  in 
to  put  its  tendrils  and  carved  grapes  to  shame.  The  white- 
washed walls  were  brilliant'  with  Oliver 's  canvases,  but  on 
the  ceiling  there  were  the  flakes  and  peelings  of  a  fresco, 
still  witnessing  that  it  had  once  been  lovely,  as  a  skeleton 
leaf  cries  out  to  you  that  once  it  was  green.  Laura, 
perched  on  her  throne,  would  try  to  decipher  the  dim  out- 
lines, till  Oliver  called  to  her  not  to  pucker  her  face:  and 
then  she  would  start  and  lose  her  pose  and  twinkle  across 
at  Justin,  while  Oliver  swore  like  a  cat  in  Italian  and 
apologized  mellifluously  in  English  and  arranged  her  again 
to  suit  his  difficult  taste.  I  am  afraid  she  was  not  a  good 


122  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

sitter.  She  was  still  enough,  but  Oliver  complained  that 
she  would  not  look  at  him.  He  was  certainly  worth  looking 
at,  as  he  sat  in  the  open  doorway,  his  dark  face  darker 
against  the  light,  and  the  overladen,  fantastic  column  ris- 
ing beside  him.  They  had  an  odd  air  of  belonging  to  the 
same  century.  Justin,  indeed,  had  once  declared  that 
Oliver  looked  like  an  undissipated  Medici;  which  did  not 
quite  please  Oliver.  He  was  young  enough  to  deprecate 
the  adjective.  But  despite  his  wild  hair  and  dynamic 
neckerchiefs  and  all  the  other  inevitable  little  affectations 
of  his  temperament  and  his  trade,  his  good  looks  were  un- 
deniable, and  it  is  possible  that  he  did  not  often  find  his 
sitters  unappreciative.  But  always  Laura's  eyes  went 
through  him  and  over  him  and  beyond  him  to  the 
loggia  where  Justin  lounged  or  read  aloud  to  them  in  his 
shy  precise  sing-song,  while  the  smoke  of  his  smouldering 
pipe  whorled  upwards,  to  melt  into  the  fine  silvery  rain 
that  eddied  past  like  ghosts  of  old  Florence,  or  to  the  cor- 
ner where  Justin  raked  his  way  through  Oliver's  stacked 
canvases  and  grunted  out  comments  that  set  Oliver  ablaze. 
And  then  Laura  must  jump  down  to  see  what  it  was  all 
about  and  give  her  opinion,  though  Oliver  took  no  notice 
of  it,  which  nettled  her,  little  as  she  liked  him:  and  busi- 
ness would  be  delayed.  Mrs.  Cloud  would  come  in  with  a 
basket  and  a  Murillo's  melon-boy  to  carry  it,  and  they 
would  all  picnic  together  on  the  throne.  And  afterwards, 
if  the  sun  had  come  out,  Justin  would  carry  them  off 
for  a  drive  and  no  more  painting  would  be  done  that 
day. 

Nevertheless  the  picture  progressed  apace.  Mrs.  Cloud 
thought  it  very  pretty  and  Justin  was  enthusiastic,  though 
not  sufficiently  enthusiastic  for  Oliver,  for  nobody's  praise 
seemed  to  Oliver  to  do  his  work  quite  such  discriminating 
justice  as  his  own.  Even  Laura  would  have  owned  to  a 
real  admiration  if  Oliver  had  asked  her.  But  Oliver  did 
not  ask  her.  Laura  had  protected  Justin  only  too  well. 
He  had  explained  to  Oliver  in  all  good  faith  how  well  she 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  123 

sketched — oh,  water-colour,  he  supposed,  he  didn't  really 
know — and  Oliver,  with  all  the  water-colours  of  all  the 
daughters  and  drawing-rooms  of  England  in  his  mind's 
eye,  thought  himself  wise  in  evading  the  subject.  His 
Hebe  should  not  trip  if  he  could  help  it.  Naturally  Laura 
observed  his  manoeuvres.  If  she  had  had  more  faith  in 
herself  she  would  have  been  amused  by  them ;  as  it  was,  she 
was  humanly  annoyed.  She  might  have  made  up  her 
mind  to  forgo  her  painting:  she  half  believed  she  had; 
but  it  was  another  thing  to  be  ignored,  to  sit  a  week  watch- 
ing some  one  else  handling  and  mishandling  the  tools  of 
your  trade.  Because,  whatever  conceit  Oliver  might  have 
of  himself,  he  could  not'  draw.  She  could  see  all  he  did 
reflected  in  the  mirror  beside  him  and — he  could  not  draw. 
She  conceded  him  colour,  an  amazing  colour;  but  he  had 
no  sense  of  discipline,  of  line  .  .  .  and,  shades  of  Ingres! 
how  he  was  mangling  the  shoulder  curve!  However — 
this  with  a  twist  of  her  lip — she  supposed  he  would  cover 
it  up  nicely  with  drapery. 

"Smile,  please,"  directed  Oliver.  And  then,  "Sweeter, 
my  dear  girl,  sweeter.  No,  I  don 't  want  your  teeth. ' ' 

"Oh,  I  can't  sit  any  more,"  said  Laura  suddenly,  and 
she  jumped  down  in  spite  of 'his  outcries.  "Aren't  you 
nearly  done?" 

"Pretty  well."  Oliver  stepped  back.  "Like  it?"  he 
enquired  politely;  but  he  went  off  to  unpack  the  luncheon 
basket  without  waiting  for  her  answer. 

Justin  came  up  and  looked  over  her  shoulder.  The  can- 
vas showed  an  arrangement  of  sunshine  and  white  flesh  and 
red  hair,  with  no  more  than  a  conventional  resemblance  to 
Laura,  but  delicate  and  lovely  as  a  bunch  of  shaded 
nasturtiums. 

"Don't  you  like  it?"  he  asked. 

She  chose  her  words. 

"It's  wonderful  colour:  like  a  fire-opal." 

He  nodded  quickly.  She  always  found  the  words  he 
wanted. 


184  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

"That's  why  I've  bought  it — at  least,  I'm  going  to — 
for  Mother.  Just  the  thing  for  the  yellow  parlour,  isn't 
it?" 

"Oh,  yes."  She  was  pleased,  tremendously  pleased,  that 
she  was  to  live  in  Mrs.  Cloud's  drawing-room.  If  they 
hung  her  over  the  mantelpiece  they  would  see  her  every 
evening  as  they  sat  by  the  fire.  .  .  .  She  thought — not  be- 
cause it  was  she  herself,  of  course,  but  because  it  was  such 
a  good  piece  of  work — that  it  ought  to  go  over  the  mantel- 
piece. .  .  . 

"Wouldn't  you  give  your  ears  to  draw  like  that?" 
There  was  a  wistfulness  in  Justin's  voice  that  should  have 
touched  her.  He  was  thinking  of  himself,  not  of  her. 

But  she,  too,  was  thinking  of  herself. 

"I  can,"  said  Laura  absently.  And  then,  as  he  laughed 
— "I  tell  you  I  can,  Justin!  I  tell  you  I  can!" 

"Can  what?"  Oliver  came  across  to  them  with  his 
hands  full  of  fruit  and  green  glasses  and  blue  checked 
table-cloth,  and  sat  himself  down  to  butter  rolls. 

"Draw,"  said  Laura  stiffly,  her  eyes  on  the  fire-opal 
shoulder  blade. 

' '  Can  you  ? ' '  said  Oliver  in  the  soothing,  interested  voice 
that  one  uses  to  a  child. 

"Well,  you  may  laugh,"  she  began,  but  ready  to  laugh 
herself,  if  Justin,  with  a  vague  notion  that  she  was  making 
herself  look  foolish  and  a  still  vaguer  notion  that  he  did 
not  like  Laura  to  look  foolish,  had  not  interposed  too 
peremptorily 

"Oh,  dry  up,  Laura!  Let's  have  lunch,"  and  so  set  a 
match  to  her  discretion. 

She  flared.  It  was  comical  to  hear  the  personal  pique  and 
righteous  artistic  wrath  struggling  for  precedence  in  her 
harangue  as  she  dragged  out  Oliver's  spare  easel. 

"You  eat  your  lunches!  Oliver,  where 's  the  michallet? 
And  charcoal?  And  a  board?  You  two  think  you  know 
everything.  You  think  I'm  a  fool.  You  think  there's 
nothing  on  earth  but  colour.  Oh,  I'll  show  you!"  And 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  125 

then,  as  the  familiar  delight  of  handling  familiar  tools 
swept  over  her,  she  suddenly  added,  with  complete  if  ab- 
stracted friendliness,  "Oliver — keep  him  quiet,  won't 
you?" 

"I'm  hanged  if  you're  going  to  immortalize  me,"  be- 
gan Justin.  "Why  not  Oliver?" 

"Know  you  better."  She  looked  him  up  and  down 
through  narrowed  lids.  "A  little  more  round  to  the  right, 
please.  Talk  to  him,  Oliver."  And  she  settled  herself 
to  work. 

Justin  chuckled.  But  Oliver,  watching  her  curiously, 
noticing  the  businesslike  deftness  of  her  preparations, 
turned,  with  a  touch  of  discomfort,  to  Justin. 

"I  say — I  didn't  know "  And  then,  in  an  under- 
tone, "Is  she  really  any  good?" 

Justin  held  out  his  plate. 

"I  always  told  you  she  was  keen.  Cut  us  another  slice. 
I  wish  you  were  not  quite  so  deaf,"  for  Oliver's  attention 
had  strayed  back  again  to  Laura. 

But  Laura  stood  and  watched  them  while  her  hand 
flashed  and  hesitated  over  her  paper,  with  an  air  so  im- 
personal in  its  very  intentness  that  in  some  fashion  it  re- 
moved her  from  them,  till  at  last  they  forgot  her  as  one 
forgets  the  caged  presence  of  some  bright-eyed,  all-atten- 
tive bird.  They  sat  chatting  together  over  their  sand- 
wiches, and,  what  with  the  sunshine  and  the  tobacco  smoke 
and  the  midday  stillness,  grew  at  last  so  drowsy  that  Justin, 
for  one,  jumped  when  Laura,  with  a  despairing  gesture 
that  sent  the  charcoal  flying,  abandoned  her  easel  and  came 
to  them  across  the  room. 

"Well?"     Oliver  roused  himself. 

Laura  pushed  aside  her  hair  with  the  back  of  her  black- 
ened hand.  She  had  managed  in  the  last  half-hour  to 
make  herself  more  dishevelled  than  Oliver  had  ever  seen 
her.  She  was  flushed  to  the  eyes  and  she  looked  dead 
tired.  But  he  perceived  that  whatever  spirit  had  possessed 
her  was  departed. 


126  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

She  answered,  not  him  but  Justin's  eyes,  with  a  shrug, 
half  deprecating,  half  defiant. 

' '  I  've  done.  I  'm  afraid  I  've  messed  up  the  floor,  Oliver. 
It's  no  good,  of  course.  Of  course  I  can't.  Justin,  I'm 
a  conceited  ass.  Any  lunch  left?  I'm  starving.  It's — 
it's  an  awfully  tiring  day."  She  flung  herself  into  a  chair. 
"Oliver,  get  me  a  glass." 

But  Oliver,  who,  with  an  air  of  amused  curiosity,  had 
strolled  across  to  the  deserted  easel,  was  staring  from  her 
sketch  to  her,  and  from  her  to  Justin,  and  so  back  again 
to  the  sketch.  Then  he  whistled — a  prolonged  and  pene- 
trating whistle. 

"Here,  get  up,  Justin!"  he  commanded.  "Let's  have 
a  look  at  you." 

Justin  hauled  himself  out  of  his  chair  with  a  yawn  and 
stood  to  attention.  Oliver  looked  at  him,  as  Laura  had 
looked,  through  insolent,  narrowed  lids:  indeed,  for  an 
instant,  there  was  the  oddest  likeness  between  them,  dif- 
ferent in  type  as  they  were.  When  at  last  he  addressed 
her,  there  was  a  new  and  intimate  note  in  his  voice — 

"I  suppose  you  know  what  you've  done?" 

"I  know  what  I've  not  done.  I  don't  want  butter, 
Oliver,  I  want  water.  I  'm  thirsty. ' ' 

But  he  swept  on  excitedly  as  he  went  to  fetch  her  a  glass. 

"Oh,  you've  justified  yourself.  I — I'm  half  afraid  of 
you.  How  did  you  see  all  that  ?  I  never  saw  all  that " 

"All  what?"  struck  in  Justin,  as  he  considered  himself 
critically,  his  head  on  one  side.  "What  are  you  driving 
at?  I  think  it's  rather  good." 

Laura  smiled  at  them  both  with  her  mouth  full. 

But  Oliver  continued  to  hold  forth.  His  eyes  danced. 
He  shook  a  warning  forefinger. 

"You '11  be  a  failure,  yon  know.  This  sort  of  thing  won 't 
get  you  into  academies.  What's  the  use  of  painting  what 
ought  to  be  there?  Eh ?  People  want  to  be  photographed. 
Ask  Justin.  Isn't  that  so,  Justin?" 

Laura  flashed  a  dubious  look  at  him.     She  was  not  quite 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  127 

sure  that  she  approved  of  the  tone  in  which  he  said  "Ask 
Justin."  Almost  it  seemed  as  if  he  implied  superiority — 
a  mutual  acknowledgement  of  superiority  to  Justin  .  .  . 
Cheek!  .  .  . 

She  waited  for  Justin  to  assert  himself.  But  Justin  was 
absorbed  in  her  drawing. 

"It's  quite  good,  isn't  it?"  he  said  to  Oliver  with  an  air 
of  gratified  surprise. 

"Oh,  quite  good."  And  this  time  the  tone  was  so  un- 
mistakable that  Laura  reddened  angrily.  She  got  up 
abruptly  and  joined  them. 

"Though  I  haven't  got  a  nose  like  that.  That  I'll 
swear."  Justin  rubbed  the  original  thoughtfully. 

Oliver  grinned. 

"No.  That's  Caesar's  beak.  But  you  could  have  if  you 
tried.  Isn't  that  the  idea,  Laura?  No  work  done,  but 
great  works  undone.  You  make  her  tear  it  up,  Justin.  It 
isn  't  fair. ' '  And  then,  as  Laura  made  a  movement  to  obey 
him,  "Here,  what  are  you  doing?  This  masterpiece  is 
my  perquisite. ' ' 

"Look  here,  Oliver,  I  won't  have  Laura  ragged." 
Justin  had  caught  sight  of  her  vexed  face.  "Don't  you 
worry,  Laura.  It  isn't  half  bad  for  a  beginner.  Tons 
better  than  I  thought  you  could." 

Oliver  went  off  into  one  of  his  fits  of  laughter. 

"Oh,  Waring,  what's  to  be  really  be?"  he  chanted. 
"And  the  next  article,  please?  I'm  sorry,  Justin.  It's 
Browning's  split  infinitive,  not  mine." 

"Isn't  he  a  fool?"  demanded  Justin,  beaming  at  him. 

"He's  worse.     He's  a  clever  fool,"  said  Laura  darkly. 

Oliver  blew  her  a  kiss. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

LAURA,  in  the  days  that  followed,  could  not  make  up  her 
mind  about  Oliver :  did  not  know  what  had  come  over  him. 
She  had  always  intended  him  to  like  her,  though  there  was 
something  in  his  temperament  that  must  always  prevent 
her  from  heartily  liking  him  in  her  turn,  good  friends  as 
they  were;  but  she  wished  sometimes  that  he  were  less  en- 
thusiastic a  champion.  He  was  not  satisfied  with  liking 
her:  he  published  her  abroad.  He  paid  attention  to  her 
every  trivial  remark:  she  had  known  him  to  stop  Justin 
himself  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence  to  listen  to  what  she 
said.  It  was  getting  beyond  a  joke,  you  know.  .  .  .  And 
ever  since  that  unlucky  morning  in  the  studio,  he  had 
raved  about  her  work,  calling  heaven  and  earth  and  Justin 
to  observe  as  remarkable  a  talent  as  ever  lay  snug  and 
shameless  in  its  napkin. 

He  worried  at  her,  always  before  Justin,  to  tell  him  her 
plans  and  when  she  said  she  had  none,  explained  to  her 
with  much  picturesque  detail  exactly  what  she  ought  to 
be  doing  for  the  next  five  years.  The  only  effect  of  his 
eloquence  upon  Laura  was  to  intensify  that  inexplicable 
sensation  of  panic  that  stole  over  her  at  the  thought  of 
overleaping  the  gulf  that  daily  yawned  wider  between  her 
and  her  art;  but  Justin  seems  to  have  listened  with  some 
respect.  At  any  rate,  he  had  taken  to  arranging  sketch- 
ing expeditions  for  them.  The  plunge  once  taken,  Laura 
had  been  too  weak  to  refuse.  She  had,  after  all,  her  paints, 
an  elbow  length  down  her  trunk.  She  had  never  been  so 
torn  in  her  life  as  she  now  was  between  this  definite  cre- 
ative instinct  of  hers  and  the  other  stronger  instinct  that 
forbade  it,  the  stronger  instinct  that  she  did  not  remotely 

understand. 

128 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  129 

They  would  all  drive  out  together  to  some  nook  of  the 
hills,  and  she  and  Oliver  would  be  left  to  their  devices 
while  Mrs.  Cloud  and  Justin  explored  the  village  and 
picked  up  curios  and  ordered  lunch  and  came  back  at 
last  to  see  and  criticize  what  they  had  done.  One  day 
Justin  startled  her.  He  took  her  aside. 

"I  say,  Laura,"  he  began  solemnly  and  she  racked  her 
brains  to  remember  if  she  had  done  anything  wrong.  "I 
say  you  know — if  you  want  to  go  back  to  Paris — to  train 
— if  you  feel  you've  got  it  in  you " 

A  future  opened  map-like  in  her  mind,  gorgeous,  trium- 
phant, like  a  bird's-eye  view  of  an  oriental  city,  hers,  who 
knew,  for  the  conquering.  And  again  that  other,  unknown 
instinct  was  a  mist  that  blotted  it  out.  Through  her 
thoughts  she  heard  him — 

"Of  course  I'm  no  judge,  but  Oliver  says — I've  been 
talking  to  Oliver — and  you  know,  Laura,  you've  only  got 

to  tell  me "  (Mrs.  Cloud  would  have  liked  to  be  there 

just  then  to  listen  to  Justin  and  love  him.  Any  woman, 
Laura  herself,  might  have  loved  Justin  then,  he  was  so 
portentous  and  fatherly)  " — because,  you  know,  Laura, 
if  there's  any  difficulty — your  grandfather — if  you're  wor- 
ried about  ways  and  means — you  know  what  I  mean " 

She  flushed. 

""Well,  you  needn't,  you  know.  It  could  be  arranged. 
I — Mother — Mother  could  fix  it  up  for  you." 

Now  did  you  ever  hear  of  anything  more  kind?  .  .  .  He 
had  actually  bothered  his  head  .  .  .  but  that,  you  see,  was 
the  sort  of  person  Justin  was.  .  .  .  She  had  always  known, 
of  course,  that  he  was  not  as  other  men,  but — wasn't  it 
kind?  .  .  .  She  was  almost  reverently  amazed  at  the 
extraordinary,  the  unparallelled  benevolence  of  this  unique 
Justin.  She  did  not  know  how  she  was  to  thank  him,  be- 
cause, when  you  tried,  he  always  jerked  away  from  you 
like  a  pony.  And  yet  it  was  indispensable  to  her  peace  of 
mind  that  he  should  be  most  gratefully  thanked.  Thanked, 
and  at  the  same  time  convinced,  beyond  any  possibility  of 


130  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

argument,  that  she  could  not  go  back  to  Paris,  that  she 
could  not  be  an  artist,  that  she  did  not  care  about  painting 
and  that  Oliver — but  it  is  not  necessary  for  me  to  tell  you 
all  that  Laura  refrained  from  saying  about  Oliver.  Indeed 
I  have  not  the  capacity.  She  was  something  of  a  specialist 
in  adjectives. 

But  she  contrived,  in  the  latter  end,  to  settle  things  to 
her  satisfaction.  Looking  back  she  hardly  knew  how  she 
had  done  it ;  for  a  young  man,  generously  in  love  with  his 
own  scheme  for  benefiting  his  neighbour,  is  apt  to  be  ob- 
stinate. Perhaps  the  fact  that  she  was  arguing,  though 
neither  of  them  knew  it,  not  with  him  but  with  her  own 
puzzled  and  protesting  self,  had  something  to  do  with  her 
success.  She  was  bound  to  convince  herself. 

She  said — oh,  she  said  that  she  had  no  real  talent. 

She  said  that  Justin  must  realize  by  now  what  an  exag- 
gerated, unreliable — er — dear,  Oliver  was. 

She  said,  with  a  sigh,  that  she  only  wished  he  were 
right ;  but  that  she  had  watched  herself  for  two  years  now — 

She  said  that  she  had  given  up  the  idea  altogether. 

She  said  that  her  eyes  weren't  very  strong. 

She  said  that  she  was  homesick. 

She  said  that  all  that,  however,  did  not  lessen  his  kind- 
ness, that  she  hadn't  believed  anybody  could  be  so  kind, 
that  it  was  quite  impossible  to  thank  him  properly:  and 
then  stopped,  because  she  really  did  find  it  impossible. 

She  was  perfectly  sincere  in  every  word  she  said,  and 
not  once,  not  once  did  she  remember  the  good  offices  of  the 
directresses  and  Monsieur  La  Motte. 

There  remained  Oliver.  She  must  set  herself  to  the 
danaid  task  of  bottling-up  Oliver. 

She  felt  it  to  be  a  hopeless  business.  Convincing  Justin 
was  like  battering  down  a  wall,  laborious,  but  it  could  be 
done;  but  convincing  Oliver  was  like  wrestling  with  run- 
ning water.  He  did  not  resist  you,  he  simply  slipped 
through  your  fingers.  He  had  good  manners:  he  waited 
courteously  while  you  expressed  yourself;  but  he  never 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  131 

listened.  Just  as  his  eyes  moved  incessantly  while  he 
talked  to  you,  so  you  felt  that  his  mind  was,  all  the  time, 
eagerly  working  at  what  he  meant  to  go  on  saying  when 
you  had  done.  It  was  easier  to  send  a  boat  up  a  torrent 
than  to  lodge  a  thought  of  your  own  in  that  fluent,  brim- 
ming soul. 

Perhaps  she  did  not  try  hard,  or  if  she  did,  for  love 
of  the  argument  rather  than  the  man.  She  was  still  young 
enough  to  believe  that  argument  is  a  kind  of  spy-glass  into 
a  neighbour's  mind  instead  of  a  cracked  mirror  that  dis- 
torts your  own.  Growing  bored,  she  had  lapsed  into  a 
mere  listener,  except  when  he  annoyed  her.  But  he,  find- 
ing her  passivity  even  more  provocative  than  her  temper, 
could  not  leave  her  alone,  and  when  she  refused  Justin's 
proposals  and  he  heard  of  it,  fell  upon  her  with  enthusi- 
astic indignation. 

' '  You  know,  I  can 't  make  you  out ! ' '  Oliver  prided  him- 
self on  understanding  women.  "What  made  you  stuff  up 
Justin  with  all  that  rot?  You're  not  a  fool.  You  know 
what  you  can  do.  'No  real  talent !'  "What  are  you  driving 
at  ?  That 's  what  I  want  to  know. ' ' 

Laura  studied  her  morning's  work.  It  was  slight 
enough.  The  sky  was  white,  the  hills  were  blue,  and 
cypresses  pierced  the  all-pervading  haze  of  the  olive 
groves;  but  Italy — Italy — was  warm  in  every  loving  line 
of  it.  She  realized,  as  she  looked  at  it,  how  nearly  Oliver 
was  justified ;  but  her  only  answer  was  a  queer  little  fleeting 
smile.  Sometimes  it  was  difficult  to  resist  Oliver.  She 
knew  exactly  how  he  felt.  She  believed  that  that  was  why 
he  annoyed  her — she  saw  in  him  all  the  tendencies  she 
tried  to  repress  in  herself.  Here,  but  for  the  grace  of — 
she  hardly  knew  what — went  Laura  Valentine!  It  made 
her  brusque  with  him  and  impatient,  yet  always,  as  I  say, 
with  a  queer  accompanying  smile  that  Oliver  misinter- 
preted. He  misinterpreted  it  now.  He  thought  she 
wanted  encouraging.  He  warmed  to  her. 


132  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

"My  dear  girl!  You've  got  to  believe  in  yourself. 
One  must.  I  do.  People  won't  give  you  sixpences  for 
your  stun*  if  you  insist  it's  not  worth  tuppence — and  after 
all,  one's  out  for  sixpences !  You've  got  to  be  sure  of  your- 
self— so  sure  that  you  never  even  think  of  it.  I  am.  But 
to  sit  there  as  you  do  and  brood  over  whether  you're  any 
good " 

Again  that  queer  smile  came  and  went  as  Laura  worked 
and  listened,  and  again  it  had  its  effect,  its  odd,  exciting 
effect  upon  Oliver.  He  felt  generous,  affectionate,  ex- 
pansive. He  felt  that  he  would  do  anything  to  help  the 
dear  girl.  .  .  . 

"Should  /  be  likely  to  back  you  up?"  he  demanded — 
"if  I  weren't  sure?  Haven't  I  wallowed  in  art  students? 
But  you — "  he  flung  out  dramatic  hands — "look  at  those 
two  things!  Isn't  your  stuff  up  to  mine?  Of  course! 
And  d'you  know  why?  The  technique — excuse  my  saying 

so "  (the  artist  in  him,  the  realest  thing  in  him,  was 

coming  out  again)  "the  techinque  is — oh,  unlawful!  ut- 
terly! but "  his  hand  came  down  heavily  on  her  shoul- 
der— "Oh,  damn  you,  woman,  there's  religion  in  it!" 
cried  Oliver.  "I'll  never  get  that.  Oh,  I  don't  mean 
Church  of  England." 

Laura  was  no  longer  staring  at  her  drawing.  He  was 
interesting  her  at  last. 

"What  is  it  you  put  in?" 

He  shook  at  her  impatiently  as  he  stood  behind  her. 
There  was  real  passion  in  his  voice. 

"I  don't  know."  She  was  honestly  puzzled.  "I'm  not 
bad,  I  know.  But  you — you  imagine  a  lot."  And  then, 
consolingly,  "I  shouldn't  worry.  You  just  see — in  ten 
years  you'll  be  at  the  top.  I'm  sure  of  it.  But  I  shall 
fizzle  out.  I'm  bored  with  it  already — this  medium,  any- 
how. Oh,  don't  you  see?"  She  followed  up  her  thoughts 
as,  exploring,  one  follows  strange  footfalls  in  the  dark  of 
a  passage — "Don't  you  feel  what  the  difference  is?  You 
— a  man — a  man  has  got  to  put  himself  into  only  one 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  183 

thing,  painting  or  music  or  whatever  it  is.  But  a  girl  can 
put  herself  into  whatever  happens  along.  He  has  a  gift 
for  painting.  She  has  just  a  gift.  Oh,  don't  you  see? 
Isn't  it  interesting?  I  never  thought  of  it  before.  That's 
the  difference  between  men  and  women.  You're  born 
craftsmen;  but  we — it's  not  the  craft  we  care  about.  It's 
just  something  in  us — the  religion,  as  you  say — that's  got 
to  get  out  somewhere — anywhere.  "We  could  be  just  as  re- 
ligious over  cooking  a  dinner." 
Oliver  writhed. 

"Oh,  but  we  could.  Look  here — I'm  doing  this  for  my 
grandfather.  He's  never  been  able  to  afford  to  come  to 
Italy.  So  it's  got  to  be  good — to  please  him.  If  I  did  it 
like  yours,  to  be  sold,  without  knowing  to  whom  it  was 
going — well,  I  couldn't  do  it.  It  wouldn't  be  worth  doing 
for  its  own  sake.  I  shouldn't  enjoy  it.  You  can't  under- 
stand that,  can  you?  That's  because  you're  an  artist  and 
I  'm  not,  and  never  shall  be,  religion  or  no  religion. ' ' 

Her  brilliant  face  was  very  close  to  his  as  she  sat  and 
talked  to  him  over  her  shoulder:  she  always  lit  up  like  a 
little  Christmas  tree  when  she  was  excited.  He  thought, 
with  a  touch  of  heady  self-congratulation,  that  she  had 
never  talked  to  him  like  this  before  (forgetting  how  little 
chance  he  usually  gave  her).  He  did  not  realize  how  im- 
personal were  her  speculations,  he  marvelled  merely  that 
she  should  be  so  charming  to  him.  "There  must  be  some 
reason ! ' '  cried  his  eager  vanity. 

"Keligion?"  He  hesitated,  smiling.  "I  believe  I  know 
a  better  word. ' ' 

She  questioned  him  with  a  movement  of  her  head. 

"Love."     He  wondered  how  she  would  take  it. 

"Why — "  she  began  doubtfully,  "why,  of  course " 

And  then,  "Oh,  Oliver,  I  believe  you're  perfectly  right?" 

She  laughed  abstractedly,  fingering  her  chalks.  The 
suggestion  had  taken  her  fancy.  It  cleared  up  a  hundred- 
and-one  points  for  her.  It  explained  so  many  failures  and 
successes.  Why,  of  course.  ...  it  was  not  the  brains  .  .  . 


134  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

it  was  the  being  fond  of  people  that  counted,  that  made  you 
able  to  do  things,  to  look  pretty,  to  be  tidy,  and  paint,  and 
get  on  with  irritating  people,  like  Oliver  and  Aunt  Adela 
.  .  .  because  you  did  it  to  please  some  one  you  were  fond 
of.  ...  It  must  be  ghastly  not  to  be  fond  of  any  one  .  .  . 
one  would  miss  such  a  lot  ...  Oliver,  for  instance,  was 
quite  decent  really,  when  you  got  to  know  him  .  .  .  but 
she  would  never  have  bothered  if  it  hadn't  been  to  please 
Justin  ...  a  shame  .  .  .  Poor  Oliver!  .  .  . 

And  so  ended,  a  little  guiltily,  by  smiling  up  at  him. 

And  then,  you  know,  he  kissed  her. 

For  myself,  I  don't  blame  Oliver.  In  the  spring — and 
after  all,  they  had  been  discussing  love.  Besides,  as  he 
said  to  her  some  hectic  moments  later  when,  in  sheer 
breathlessness,  she  allowed  him  to  speak,  where  was  the 
harm?  Most  girls  liked  that  sort  of  thing.  He  felt  ill- 
used.  She  was  old  enough  to  play  the  game  ...  to  ob- 
serve the  rules  that  every  girl,  every  human  being,  ought 
to  know  .  .  .  She  was  a  little  fool  .  .  .  nothing  in  her  after 
all  ...  nothing  whatever.  .  .  . 

For  Laura,  after  one  paralysed,  open-mouthed  moment, 
had  risen  in  her  wrath  (literally  risen — she  sent  the  easels 
flying)  and  overwhelmed  him :  and  while  she  told  him,  with 
impassioned  accuracy,  what  she  thought  of  him,  and  Oliver 
rose  from  the  wreck  to  answer,  for  characteristically  his 
first  concern  had  been  his  canvas,  she  scrubbed  her  out- 
raged cheek  with  her  pocket-handkerchief;  or  it  may  have 
been  her  paint-rag,  for  there  was  little,  in  those  days,  to 
choose  between  them. 

And  that,  curiously,  infuriated  Oliver.  Mere  angry 
words  he  was  accustomed  to  discount,  but  all  the  irresistible 
apologies  he  had  premeditated,  all  his  assumption  of  savoir- 
faire,  melted  before  the  spectacle  of  that  all  too  genuine 
disgust.  There  remained  the  raw  juvenile,  wanting  to  say : 
"Yah!  suppose  you  think  that's  funny!"  like  a  small  boy 
quarrelling  with  his  sister. 

What  he  said,  however,  and  with  intense  dignity,  was — 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  135 

"You're  only  making  yourself  streaky.  That  rag's 
thick  with  cadmium."  Then  he  exploded.  "Look  here, 
Laura,  I  'm  not  a  disease ! ' ' 

"I  don't  care  what  you  are,"  she  blazed.  "I  don't  want 
to  discuss  it.  I  don't  want  to  speak  to  you  at  all.  If 
you're  so  eaten  up  with  conceit  that  I  can't  be  nice  to 

you Oh,  you  don't  suppose,"  she  adjured  him,  "that 

I  should  ever  have  bothered  to  be  nice  to  you — to  you — 
except  to  please  the  Clouds?  I  don't  like  you.  I  never 
did  like  you.  I  don't  want  to  like  you.  Only  you're 
Justin's  friend,  so  I  have  to  be  polite  to  you." 

"I  suppose  that's  what  you  call  it?"  he  enquired  bit- 
terly: and,  for  an  instant,  she  stared  at  him  blankly,  all 
her  dignity  endangered  by  a  spasm  of  untimely  mirth. 
She  controlled  it  in  a  flash,  and  hardening  from  hot  anger 
into  cold,  sat  down  again  on  her  stool,  picked  up  her  scat- 
tered chalks  and  ignored  him  for  a  full  quarter  of  an 
hour.  But  if  there  had  been,  at  that  critical  moment,  a 
twinkle  in  Oliver's  eye,  I  believe  that  she  might  have  been 
jockeyed  into  forgiveness.  It  was  always  fatally  easy  to 
make  Laura  laugh. 

But  Oliver  "Weathersby  Seton,  jester  to  the  world  at 
large,  had  yet  to  learn  that  there  was  anything  to  laugh 
at  in  Oliver  "Weathersby  Seton.  He  sat  wrapped  in  of- 
fence, vexed  indeed  with  himself,  but,  because  his  vanity 
was  in  shreds,  doubly  and  trebly  vexed  with  the  unaccom- 
modating Laura.  He  thought  that  he  had  never  happened 
on  so  typical  a  bourgeoise  ...  it  just  showed  how  ap- 
pearances could  deceive  even  a  man  of  his  experience.  .  .  . 
He  would  have  vouched  for  a  temperament  ...  it  showed 
in  every  clean-cut  line  of  her.  .  .  .  Yet  here  she  was,  kick- 
ing up  a  fuss  like  a  vicar's  daughter!  ...  He  wondered 
where  it  would  end?  .  .  .  He  believed  she  was  capable  of 
blurting  out  the  whole  idiotic  business  to  Mrs.  Cloud  .  .  . 
exaggerating,  of  course  .  .  .  Well,  it  couldn't  be  helped. 
...  Or  could  it?  ...  A  row  with  Justin  would  be  a 
beastly  nuisance.  ...  If  he'd  dreamed  she'd  take  it  like 


136  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

that  .  .  .  such  a  pretty  girl  too.  .  .  .  What  a  waste! 
Lord !  what  a  waste !  .  .  . 

Thus  Oliver  to  himself  in  the  pregnant  silence  that  had 
fallen  upon  them;  while  at  his  elbow  Laura,  erect,  im- 
passive, attending  awfully  to  her  work  and  nothing  else 
whatever,  had  also  her  thoughts. 

What  a  thing,  what  an  appalling  thing  to  happen  to 
one!  Oliver  must  be  crazy.  .  .  .  Suppose  any  one.  .  .  . 
Suppose  Justin — she  turned  cold  at  the  mere  idea — suppose 
Justin  came  to  know  of  it.  ...  Her  ears  began  to  burn. 
He  would  think  that  she — Laura — was  the  sort  of  girl 
who  got  herself  made  love  to.  ...  She  could  imagine 
his  face  and  the  shrug  of  his  shoulders.  .  .  .  And  she  could 
never  explain — there  was  never  any  chance  of  explaining 
things  to  Justin:  you  were  summed  up — judged — and  ir- 
revocable sentence  passed — for  a  word,  a  luckless  phrase,  a 
nervous  gaucherie  .  .  .  and  you  never  knew  exactly  what 
you  had  done.  .  .  Hopeless  to  dream  of  explaining  .  .  . 
She  supposed  Oliver  would  be  sure  to  tell  Justin?  .  .  . 
they  were  such  friends.  .  .  . 

She  flushed  darkly.  If  Oliver  were  such  a  beast  as  to  tell 
Justin.  .  .  .  Oh,  but  surely  Oliver  wouldn't  dream  of  tell- 
ing Justin?  .  .  . 

Yet  she  grew  more  and  more  miserable. 

Suppose  Oliver  did  tell  Justin?  .  .  .  Suppose  Justin 
were  absolutely  disgusted?  ...  Of  course  she  couldn't 
ask  Oliver  not  to  tell  Justin  .  .  .  quite  impossible.  ...  It 
was  Oliver's  business  to  apologize  to  her.  .  .  .  She  never 
intended  to  speak  to  him  again  except  before  the  Clouds. 
.  .  .  But  if,  by  a  few  words,  without  being  nice  in  the 
least.  .  .  .  She  had  a  perfect  right,  if  she  chose,  to  ask  him — 
to  tell  him — to  order  him,  that  is,  not  to  tell  Justin.  .  .  . 

She  turned  to  him,  her  chin  high,  catching  her  breath  a 
little. 

"  Oliver!" 

"Er — yes,"  said  Oliver. 

"I  want  to  say — I  merely  want  to  say — whatever  I  think 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  187 

of  you  myself — I  shan't — I  don't  want  you — it  doesn't 
seem  to  me  necessary — to  bother  Mrs.  Cloud. ' ' 

' '  Certainly  not ! ' '  said  Oliver  fervently. 

There  was  a  pause. 

"Or — or  anybody,"  she  added  lamely. 

' '  No — no. ' '     He  agreed  with  her. 

Again  they  paused,  relenting  imperceptibly  to  each  other 
in  their  mutual  relief. 

But  Laura  wanted  to  be  quite  sure. 

"So  that's  settled,"  she  said.  And  then,  like  a  woman, 
' 'Oh,  Oliver,  why  were  you  hateful?" 

He  flung  out  his  hands. 

"Lord  knows!"  He  fidgeted.  Suddenly  he  looked  up 
at  her  with  a  boy's  grin.  "I  say — let's  chuck  it,  Laura?" 

"Oh,  well "  she  said  grudgingly.  "Oh,  well " 

And  then  in  most  casual  afterthought  as  she  turned  to  her 
boxes  (it  was  time  to  pack  up:  she  could  see  Mrs.  Cloud 
and  Justin  far  away  down  the  road)  "And — Oliver?  You 
won 't  tell  Justin,  of  course  ? ' ' 

At  that  word  a  great  light  broke  upon  Oliver,  a  light  so 
dazzling  that  quite  literally  he  stood  and  blinked,  and  still 
stood,  staring  at  Laura's  unconscious  back,  while  it  lit  up 
and  flooded  and  overflowed  every  nook  and  corner  of  his 
memory. 

So  that  was  why !  ...  So  that,  a  dozen  times  and  more, 
had  been  why!  .  .  .  He  shook  with  sudden  laughter  as  he 
kicked  himself  for  a  fool  and  laughed  again.  He  felt  a  new 
man.  Here  was  wine  for  his  vanity,  oil  for  his  insulted 
heart.  It  wasn't  that  she  didn't  appreciate  him.  ...  It 
was  simply  that  her  eyes  were  otherwise  occupied.  .  .  . 
Oh,  well  then!  .  .  .  He  hoped  he  was  enough  man  of  the 
world  to  understand  the  situation.  .  .  . 

With  gusto  he  adopted  the  role  of  kindly  cynic. 

Bless  their  hearts,  he  wouldn't  interfere.  .  .  .  But  what 
a  pair  of  innocents!  .  .  .  Did  they  think  all  the  world  as 
blind  as  they  were  themselves?  .  .  .  "Of  course  you  won't 
tell  Justin?"  .  .  .  The  dear  girl!  .  .  . 


138  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

Oliver,  you  perceive,  was  his  jaunty  self  again. 

But  (and,  you  know,  I  like  Oliver)  all  he  said  to  Laura 

and  with  the  utmost  gravity  was 

1 '  All  right !     I  won 't  if  you  won 't. ' ' 
"Oh,  I  won't,"  she  assured  him. 
"Then  I  won't,"  said  Oliver. 
And  that  is  why  Justin  never  knew. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

TRAVELLING  north,  they  travelled  backwards  from  early 
summer,  through  late  and  middle  spring,  and  came  to  their 
own  hill-top  at  last,  to  find  the  roads  still  grey  and 
wrinkled  with  winter  mud,  and  only  the  beeches  green,  for 
Brackenhurst  was  always  three  weeks  behind  the  rest  of 
Kent.  Laura  settled  down  with  touching  good  faith  to 
enjoy  her  spring  all  over  again  and  more  completely  than 
before,  because  Oliver  was  left  behind  in  Italy  and  could  not 
interrupt.  She  actually  believed,  you  see,  that  life  will 
give  you  the  same  good  gift  twice  over.  Oh,  of  course,  she 
did  not  expect  to  see  so  much  of  Justin  now  that  she  was 
at  home.  .  .  .  Importantly  she  acknowledged  her  duties, 
her  social  and  parochial  duties,  to  Gran 'papa  and  Aunt 
Adela  and  Brackenhurst.  .  .  .  And  Justin  would  be  going 
to  business.  .  .  .  She  was  vague  about  his  income  and 
responsibilities,  but  she  took  it  for  granted  that  his  days 
would  be  fully  employed. 

They  were,  but  not  as  she  expected.  Aunt  Adela  was 
quite  horrified  when  Laura's  notions  were  accidentally  con- 
veyed to  her. 

"Oh  no,  my  dear,  why  shouldn't  he?  Oh,  of  course  old 
Mr.  Cloud  used  to  go  up  two  or  three  times  a  week.  His 
hobby — there  was  no  real  necessity.  Besides,  it's  been  a 
company  for  years  now.  Mrs.  Gedge  told  me  so.  Mrs. 
Gedge  has  shares.  And  Mrs.  Cloud  has  money  of  her  own 
as  well.  What  should  Justin  Cloud  go  to  business  for?" 

What  indeed?  Laura  was  only  too  pleased  to  find  that 
Justin  would  have  time  on  his  hands.  Firmly  she  sup- 
pressed the  conviction  of  her  industrious  forebears,  the  in- 
herited conviction  that  a  man  who  did  not  begin  work  at 

139 


140  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

nine  in  the  morning  and  return  worn  out  at  half-past  six, 
was  somehow  cheating  the  universe.  And,  since  there  was 
no  need  for  Justin  to  work,  set  herself  to  help  him  to  play. 

But  there  again  they  differed. 

They  had  talked  about  Architecture  in  the  Italian  play- 
ground, about  Botticelli,  and  Carpaccio,  and  Dante,  and 
Excavations,  and  Francis  of  Assisi,  and  Giotto,  and  so  on 
steadily  through  the  alphabet  to  Virgil  and  Zenobius.  And 
vaguely,  without  actually  canvassing  the  matter,  she  ex- 
pected to  go  on  thinking  and  talking  to  Justin  about  these 
entirely  satisfactory  and  absorbing  subjects  for  the  rest 
of  their  natural  lives.  But  she  had  reckoned  without 
Justin,  without  old  habits,  and  a  flying  visit  to  Bellew,  and 
an  enlarged  but  by  no  means  completed  collection  crying 
out  for  attention.  Art? — when  nests  were  tucked  away 
in  the  Brackenhurst  hedges  and  nests  swinging  high  in  the 
Brackenhurst  woods  and  birds  rising  from  every  tussock 
of  green  heather  on  flat-topped  Brackenhurst  Hill  to  mis- 
lead the  enemy?  Art?  Art  was  in  Italy,  or  if  she  must 
cross  Europe  with  them  at  Laura's  invitation,  Justin,  like 
a  sensible  Briton,  insisted  on  finding  her  lodgings  in  town. 
And  there  they  had  left  her,  the  foreigner,  the  bored  great 
lady,  to  yawn  away  her  days  in  Chelsea  attics  and  over- 
heated galleries.  Of  course  they  promised  to  come  and 
look  her  up  constantly:  and  Laura  meant,  and  Justin 
thought  he  meant,  to  keep  that  promise.  But  the  train 
service  from  Brackenhurst  was  a  slow  one :  and  the  weather 
was  perfect. 

Besides — didn't  Laura  understand? — he  enjoyed  potter- 
ing round  the  fields  with  a  collecting  box. 

But  after  Botticelli — birds'  eggs? 

I  know.  I  know.  It's  distressing.  Naturally,  you  want 
an  explanation:  and  if  the  case  were  a  woman's,  I  could 
satisfy  you.  I  'm  sure  I  could ;  for,  if  you  can  but  happen 
upon  it,  there  is  always  sound  policy  behind  a  woman's 
wildest  extravagance— drinks  of  pearl  or  Bartholomew 
Eves.  But  Nero  fiddles  because  he  enjoys  fiddling  and 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  141 

wants  to  see  the  pretty  fire.  And  if  we  accept  that  ele- 
mentality  as,  if  not  justifying,  at  least  explaining  our  mere 
man,  how  much  more  must  it  suffice  us  in  eonsiderating  that 
amiable  reductio  ad  absurdum  of  a  man  that  we  call  a  col- 
lector. I  am  to  explain  to  you  a  collector?  I  am  to  ex- 
plain why  a  respectable  elderly  lawyer  runs  about  Epping 
Forest  with  a  butterfly  net  on  Sunday  afternoons?  why 
your  favourite  jeune  premier  haunts  a  down-at-heel  farm- 
house for  the  twin  china  spaniels'  sake  upon  its  parlour 
mantelpiece?  why  a  square  inch  of  orange  paper  changed 
hands  the  other  day  for  near  a  thousand  pounds?  and  why 
H.  J.  Cloud,  Esq.,  after  refreshing  dalliance  with  the 
wonders  of  a  wonderful  world,  returns,  unconscious  of  in- 
congruity, to  his  home,  to  his  habit,  to  his  hobby,  to  his 
beloved  and  incomparable  birds'  eggs?  How  can  I  ex- 
plain? What  am  I  to  say?  Collectors  are  made  that 
way.  We  must  accept  them  as  we  accept  love,  or  triplets, 
or  earthquakes,  as  eccentricities  of  Nature,  unaccountable 
but  interesting. 

Besides,  I  collect  pewter  myself. 

So  taking  Justin  for  granted But  that,  you  see,  is 

what  Laura  could  not  do. 

Here  was  Justin,  with  his  years,  his  brains,  his  position — 
why — why — he  had  been  to  Oxford!  He  would  have  been 
a  B.A.  if  he  hadn't  had  influenza!  He  had  been  round  the 
world!  He  knew  interesting  people!  He  had  once  been 
to  dinner  with  Mr.  Wells!  A  man  like  Justin  could  do 
anything  he  chose — go  into  Parliament — write  a  book  (she 
was  convinced  that  he  could  write  a  book  if  he  would  only 
take  the  trouble,  for  there  was  a  something  about  his  let- 
ters .  .  .  )  and  here  he  was,  settling  down  to — to  collecting 
birds '  eggs !  Birds '  eggs ! ! 

She  put  it  to  him  once  in  desperation — "Why  birds' 
eggs?" 

But  then,  as  Justin  said  to  her — "Why  not?" 

They  never  got  farther  than  that. 

But  it  was  patent  that  Laura,  slightly  annoying  to  Justin 


142  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

though  her  attitude  might  be,  must  stick  to  her  principles 
and  remain  aloof.  And  for  a  wavering,  half-hearted  week 
or  two  she  did  remain  aloof,  attending  strictly  to  her  own 
affairs,  settling  down  to  quiet  life  in  Brackenhurst,  to  dust- 
ing the  drawing-room  and  paying  calls  with  Aunt  Adela 
and  bearing  with  a  Gran 'papa  grown  no  younger  and  no 
less  tetchy  in  two  years.  Out  of  the  tail  of  her  eye,  how- 
ever, she  could  observe  Justin,  missing  her  but  little,  it 
seemed,  as,  his  camera  hung  from  his  shoulder,  he  passed 
her  in  Brackenhurst  by-ways  with  a  nod  and  a  smile.  That 
she  could  have  borne  longer,  but  when  she  next  took  tea 
at  the  Priory  she  found  that  Annabel  Moulde,  who  had 
also  left  school  and  put  up  her  hair  and  who  wore  a  frock 
and  a  manner  that  made  Laura  feel  childish,  was  also 
taking  tea  at  the  Priory,  and  that  Justin  (who  had  never 
liked  Annabel)  was  nevertheless  confiding  to  her,  over 
chocolate  eclairs,  items  of  oological  interest  that  he  ought 
to  have  been  telling  Laura.  (Surely  he  ought  to  have  been 
telling  them  to  Laura?) 

She  said  less  about  cruelty  to  parent  birds,  and  the  com- 
parative value  of  a  dead  shell  and  a  live  songster  as  she 
stood  beside  Justin  ten  minutes  later  at  his  open  cabinet 
and  admired  a  fortnight's  spoils.  Justin  (I  do  not  know 
why)  had  asked  her  to  come  and  look  at  them,  and  Anna- 
bel (I  do  not  know  how)  had  been  left  in  the  drawing- 
room  to  talk  to  Mrs.  Cloud.  Annabel  was  calling  on  Mrs. 
Cloud,  wasn't  she? 

And  Laura  went  out  with  Justin  the  next  morning  by 
invitation,  and  was  sound  on  the  axiom  that  birds  could 
not  count.  On  the  following  afternoon  she  was  the  proud 
discoverer  of  a  willow-wren's  nest  that  Justin  had  over- 
looked, and  their  Saturday  whole-day  expedition  to  the 
Warren  Woods  beyond  Beech  Hill  was  such  a  success  that 
it  became  a  weekly  institution. 

Behold  her  then,  one  warm  Friday  night  of  June,  retir- 
ing to  bed  at  ten  o'clock  after  a  day  of  virtue  and  house- 
wifery. Aunt  Adela  was  away  for  the  week-end :  and  after 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  143 

turning  out  the  dining-room  with  Maud  Ann;  impressing 
her  idea  of  chervil  salad  (acquired  from  sundry  student 
festivals  in  forsaken  Rue  Honorine)  upon  Aunt  Adela's 
sererely  British  cook;  entertaining  the  Vicarage,  that  al- 
ways mistook  at-home  days,  with  tea  and  small-talk;  and 
playing  double-dummy,  grimly,  with  Gran 'papa  all  the 
long  light  beckoning  evening,  she  felt  that  she  was  at  last 
and  indeed  a  grown-up  lady;  but  that  as  long  as  she  had 
her  Saturdays  with  Justin  she  could  bear  it.  Behold  her 
further,  producing  from  the  bottom  of  her  hat-box  a  most 
private  store  of  candles  (Aunt  Adela  did  not  approve  of 
young  people  reading  in  bed)  washing  out  her  newest 
blouse  and  ironing  it  then  and  there  with  the  spirit  iron 
that  Mrs.  Cloud  had  given  her  in  Italy:  and  thereafter, 
tucked  up  in  bed,  absorbed  in  a  chronique  scandaleuse, 
with  plates,  of  the  thrush  family  (order  Passeres),  not  to 
mention  their  cousins  the  warblers  and  the  white-throats, 
and  their  collaterals  the  tits  and  the  finches  and  the  pipits 
and  the  shrikes,  and  so  leave  her,  at  last,  in  the  dazed  mid- 
dle of  a  sentence,  to  sleep  and  the  shifting  pageant  of  her 
dreams. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

LAURA  was  awakened  by  a  soft  warmth  upon  her  cheek,  a 
touch  that  might  have  been  a  kiss  or  a  drifting  feather  or 
her  kitten's  tentative  paw,  but  was,  when  she  lifted  lazy 
hands  to  it,  no  more  than  a  beam  of  sunshine,  a  finger-tip 
of  morning,  thrust  in  between  thick  hangings  to  rouse  a 
votary. 

She  was  out  of  bed  in  an  instant,  barefooted  and  clear- 
eyed,  paying  her  vows  in  deep  breaths  of  pure  pleasure, 
while  the  hoarse  jingle  of  the  curtain  rings,  as  she  pulled 
them  apart,  attuned  like  a  clash  of  cymbals  to  the  choruses 
of  the  birds. 

Early  as  it  was,  the  dawn,  dewy,  startled,  fugitive,  had 
disappeared  and  the  perfect  day  spread  itself  before  her, 
arrogantly,  from  hill  to  hill,  a  peacock  trailing  splendours 
of  blue  and  green  and  gold.  Already  earth-line  and  sky- 
line were  melting  into  one,  and  the  distant  valleys  and  the 
little  red-capped  villages  were  half  hidden  in  a  quivering 
haze  of  heat.  The  breeze,  tiny  and  half  asleep,  was  bur- 
dened with  the  scents  of  a  hundred  fields  and  woods  and 
gardens.  The  church  clock,  chiming  five,  sang  seconds  to 
the  treble  of  the  larks  and  in  the  roses  at  her  elbow  the 
bees  boomed  out  their  bass.  And  the  sunlight,  like  the 
Spirit  of  God,  brooded  over  the  beautiful  land. 

She  leaned  out  and  caught  at  the  great  barbed  ropes  of 
briar  swinging  loose  from  the  wall,  and  pulled  them  up  to 
her  to  plunge  with  the  greater  ease  face  and  neck  into  the 
massed  delicacy  of  the  roses,  pink  and  white  and  cream, 
twenty  sisters  to  a  stalk:  and  drew  back  at  last,  too 
drenched  with  dew  to  think  of  bed  again,  to  have  her  bath 
and  plan  over  the  expedition  to  come. 

She  sang  herself  joyful  little  songs  as  she  sponged  and 

144 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  145 

splashed,  till  old  Mr.  Valentine  at  the  other  side  of  the  wall, 
an  early  reader  if  not  an  early  riser,  drew  the  bedclothes 
about  his  afflicted  ears.  Grandfather  and  granddaughter 
shared  an  inability  to  keep  in  tune  that  was  as  constant  as 
their  wincing  criticism  of  tunelessness  in  other  folk.  They 
were  both  fond  of  music ;  yet,  where  music  was  concerned, 
they  had  no  sympathy  whatever  with  each  other.  Gran'- 
papa,  an  hour  later,  before  his  study  window,  his  fiddle  at 
his  chin,  filled  the  house  with  the  staccato  of  Duncan  Gray 
has  come  to  woo,  and  was  perfectly  happy.  But  Laura,  set- 
ting the  breakfast  table,  wondered  merely  how  long  the 
canary  would  stand  it  and  was  impishly  ready  to  applaud, 
with  a  chuckle  and  a  chink  of  cups,  when  the  sudden  spate 
of  shrill,  contemptuous  melody  poured  through  the  house 
like  sunlight  and  left  Gran 'papa's  tune  to  glimmer 
wretchedly  like  a  day-foundered  glow-worm  or  belated  will- 
o  '-the-wisp. 

But  who  could  expect  Laura  to  have  thoughts  or  sym- 
pathies for  a  grandfather  when  there  was  Cook  to  be  inter- 
viewed, and  a  luncheon  basket  packed,  and  a  new  ribbon  to 
be  twisted  round  an  old  hat  before  ten  o'clock  and  Justin 
came — or  Gran 'papa,  fidgeted  by  the  bustle,  to  remember 
very  clearly  those  outings  of  his  own  with  sandal  shoes 
and  a  doll's  sunshade  fifty  years  ago?  The  pair  rasped 
each  other  throughout  breakfast  with  the  sour  implacability 
and  perfect  mutual  understanding  of  a  couple  of  croquet 
players. 

Gran 'papa  bent  his  head  reverently  over  his  dish  of 
whiting  as  Laura  handed  him  his  coffee. 

' '  For-what-we-are-about-to-receive-may-the-Lord-make-us- 
truly-thankf Mi-underdone ! "  he  remarked. 

Laura  was  perfunctory  in  her  concern.  She  was  wonder- 
ing, with  an  eye  on  the  egg-boiler,  if  the  eggs  were  hard 
yet  and  whether  Justin  would  eat  more  than  three. 

Gran 'papa  buried  his  hooked  nose  in  his  coffee  cup,  and 
emerged  again,  wiping  his  beard  while  he  selected  his 
epithet. 


146  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

' '  Dish-water, ' '  he  decided  pleasantly.  ' '  And  luke-warm. 
Another  cup,  if  you  please." 

' '  Sorry,  Gran  'papa, ' '  Laura  prided  herself  on  her  coffee : 
could  not  be  expected  to  agree. 

"Sorry!  Sorry!"  Gran 'papa  worried  joyously  at  the 
word.  "If  it  tread  on  a  gentlewoman's  gown  or  commit  a 
murder,  'sorry'  is  this  generation's  utmost  effort  at 
apology. ' ' 

Sandwiches  .  .  .  and  a  lettuce  ...  an  egg  for  herself 
and  three  for  Justin.  .  .  .  Yes,  that  would  do  nicely.  .  .  . 
Here  Laura  caught  Mr.  Valentine's  eye  and  realized  that 
an  answer  was  expected. 

"Oh,  sorry,  Gran 'papa,"  said  Laura  meekly  and  was 
instantly  aware  that  it  was  the  wrong  one. 

"I  assure  you,  my  dear,  that  you  are  mistaken  in  think- 
ing rudeness  a  sauce  to  good  wit,"  said  Gran 'papa,  always 
at  his  most  Shakespearean  when  offended. 

Laura  roused  herself.     She  knew  how  to  appease  him. 

"Why,  is  it  not  a  lamentable  thing,  grandsire,  that  we 
should  be  thus  afflicted  by  these  'Pardon  me's'f"  she  coun- 
tered, twinkling. 

He  gave  his  gruff  chuckle.  His  granddaughter  did  not 
wear  her  hair  in  smooth  bands  as  a  gentlewoman  should: 
used  slang  (mild  enough,  oh,  Gran 'papa  Valentine!)  and 
slurred  her  speech  in  the  detestable  modern  fashion :  had, 
in  short,  innumerable  faults  of  her  own;  but  she  could  al- 
ways be  trusted  to  cap  a  quotation.  He  held  out  an  olive 
branch. 

"The  weather  seems  likely  to  hold.  You  should  have  a 
pleasant  picnic.  You  are  taking ?" 

"Oh,  eggs  and  salad  and  bread-and-cheese,  and  Justin's 
bringing  peaches  and  anything  else  going.  We  shall  have 
a  gorgeous  spread." 

"A  feast,"  agreed  Gran 'papa,  too  graciously,  "of  ori- 
ental magnificence." 

" Oh,  you  know  what  I  mean !"  Laura  laughed.  "Will 
you  excuse  me,  Gran 'papa?  There's  such  a  lot  so  see 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  147 

to  still  and  Justin  hates  waiting — dislikes,  I  mean: 
sorry ! ' ' 

Gran 'papa  hid  his  feelings  in  his  newspaper. 

But,  hurry  as  Laura  might,  Justin  was  at  the  bow  win- 
dow when  she  returned,  elbows  on  the  sill,  talking  over  the 
morning 's  news  with  Gran  'papa. 

"Justin!     Here  already?     I  didn't  know." 

"Ai  didn't  neu,"  murmured  Gran 'papa  abstractedly. 
He  was  annoyed  at  the  interruption. 

Laura  flushed.  She  could  not  bear  being  criticized  be- 
fore Justin. 

"I'm  awfully  sorry  to  be  late,"  she  began. 

"Awfully,"  commented  Gran 'papa  with  interest. 

"Filled,  that  is  to  say,  with  awe "  Then,  testily — 

"What  is  the  matter  now,  my  dear?" 

"I'm  awf — extremely  sorry  to  bother  you,  Gran 'papa," 
said  Laura  patiently,  "but  you're  sitting  on  the  lettuce." 
Then  to  the  maid  crossing  the  hall — "Cook!  Cook!  Oh, 
Cook,  you  might  bring  me  my  basket,  will  you?  I  left  it 
in  the  kitchen. ' ' 

"Her  voice  was  ever  soft,"  confided  Gran 'papa  to  Justin 
as  he  reseated  himself — "and  gentle  and  low,  an  excellent 
thing  in  woman!" 

Justin  nodded. 

"That  always  reminds  me  of  Mother.  All  women 
squeak,  it  seems  to  me,  except  Mother.  Laura's  not  half  so 
bad  as  some,  though,  except  when  she  gets  excited."  He 
smiled  at  her  generously.  "Hurry  up,  old  thing!  What 
an  age  you  are ! ' ' 

"I  am  hurrying.  I'm  hurrying  as  much  as  ever  I  can. 
Can't  you  see  I'm  hurrying?"  Laura,  badgered  beyond 
endurance,  jabbed  her  hat-pins  through  her  hat  and  made 
heatedly  for  the  door. 

But  she  turned  again,  my  tender-conscience  Laura,  to 
say  pleasantly — 

"You've  got  the  paper,  haven't  you?  Good-bye,  Gran'- 
papa ! ' ' 


148  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

"Goodbaye,"  said  Gran 'papa,  hunched  in  his  chair  like  a 
malicious  old  eagle.  His  shoulders  shook  as  the  door 
closed  and  he  gave  his  dry,  birdlike  chuckle. 

"Goodbaye,"  repeated  Gran 'papa  with  relish,  and  re- 
turned to  his  Times. 

But  Laura,  edging  along  young  cornfields  in  Justin's 
wake,  had  been  stirred  to  expostulations. 

"I  do  think  you  might  have  backed  me.  Gran 'papa's 
impossible  sometimes.  It's  absolute  pedantry.  And  he 
doesn't  mind  who's  there.  He  says  I  slur  my  words!  I 
don't,  do  I?  As  if  I  could  help  it,  anyhow." 

"Adenoids,  I  expect,"  said  Justin  sympathetically. 
"You  ought  to  have  'em  seen  to,"  and  was  surprised  that 
Laura  was  silent  for  the  next  few  minutes. 

Not  that  he  objected.  Laura  listened  so  well  that  he 
would  have  described  her  as  a  brilliant  talker;  but  when 
she  did  talk  she  was  always  a  little  too  quick  for  him.  She 
had  had,  indeed,  to  break  herself  of  a  tendency  to  finish  his 
sentences  for  him ;  for  he  never  thought  ahead,  but  when  a 
question  was  asked  him,  or  an  aspect  presented,  he  would 
always  pause,  in  his  unhurried  fashion,  to  view  the  matter 
from  all  points  of  the  compass  before  proceeding  on  his 
conversational  itinerary,  and  so  was  apt  to  come  from  a 
totally  unexpected  quarter  to  his  impeccable  conclusions. 
Indeed  he  presented  his  truisms  with  such  an  air  of  having 
discovered  them  all  by  himself  that  nine  out  of  ten  people 
thought  him  original;  while  the  tenth — laughed  and  loved 
him.  His  solemnity,  you  see,  to  those  discerning  ones,  was 
— and  would  be  all  his  life — so  disarmingly  the  seriousness 
of  the  small  boy  who,  on  one  of  his  mother's  at-home  days, 
had  greeted  a  clerical  stranger  encountered  on  the  door- 
step with — 

"How  do  you  do?  I'm  Justin  Cloud.  Would  you  like 
to  see  my  football?"  Then,  graciously — "I  keep  it  in  the 
pantry." 

And  in  the  pantry  Mrs.  Cloud  at  last  discovered  her 
rural  dean,  seated  on  the  housemaid  's-box  and  fiercely  up- 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  149 

holding  Rugby  football  to  a  small  and  intent,  but  entirely 
unconvinced,  believer  in  Association  methods. 

For  Justin,  then  as  now,  was  not  easily  shaken  in  his  be- 
lief. He  was  the  reverse  of  blatant :  indeed,  he  seldom  vol- 
unteered an  opinion  on  any  subject  unasked;  but  once 
asked,  he  was  maddeningly  sure  of  himself.  Laura  always 
considered  him  her  most  liberal  education — in  self-control; 
for  she  never  argued  with  him  (and  they  were  both  young 
enough  to  revel  in  argument)  without  yearning  in  the  latter 
end  to  shake  him.  Yet  he  had  an  occasional  attractive  way 
of  suddenly  and  so  sweetly  seeing  your  point  of  view  that 
you  were  bewildered  into  receiving  the  capitulation  with 
extravagant  gratitude  and  a  conscience-stricken  sub-convic- 
tion that  he  was  probably  right  after  all.  But  when,  after 
hesitation,  you  looked  up  to  tell  him  so,  you  would  usually 
find  that  his  eye  and  his  attention  hJad  wandered  past  you 
to  the  new  picture  on  the  wall,  or  the  robins  on  the  lawn. 
Indeed,  you  would  be  lucky  if  he  had  not  picked  up  a  book. 
To  avert  that  catastrophe  you  would,  if  you  were  Laura, 
begin  humbly  and  hastily  to  talk  of  something  else. 

So  Laura,  though  the  adenoids  rankled,  was  at  the  end  of 
her  five  minutes  ready  for  him  again  with  a  more  attractive 
subject  than  herself.  She  headed  him  gently  towards  his 
birds'  eggs,  had  him  perfectly  contented  rehearsing  old 
finds  and  anticipating  new  ones. 

And  because  he  was  happy,  she  was  happy  too.  And 
they  had  a  successful  morning,  with  three  redstarts '  eggs  in 
Justin's  moss-lined  collecting-box,  and  two  photographs, 
at  the  end  of  it,  and  a  peaceful  and  protracted  lunch. 
Justin  gratified  Laura,  as  a  man  always  does  gratify  a 
woman  when  he  enjoys  his  food.  It  was  so  lucky  that  she 
had  boiled  that  third  egg.  .  .  .  She  had  known  that  two 
would  not  be  enough.  .  .  . 

Afterwards  Justin,  lulled  by  the  sun  and  the  silence  and 
the  scent  of  wild  thyme,  and  possibly  by  that  third  egg, 
went  to  sleep :  and  Laura  sat  and  watched  him  and  com- 
pared his  serene  repose  with  the  lax,  crimson,  open-mouthed 


150  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

slumber  of  lesser  men — Wilfred  and  James,  and  gentlemen 
in  railway  carriages,  and  even  Gran 'papa.  You  could 
hear  Gran 'papa  quite  clearly  on  still  nights.  .  .  .  But 
Justin  stood  the  test  of  sleep.  Sleep  did  not  betray  Justin 
or  betrayed  only  that  there  was  nothing  to  betray.  For 
Life  had  dealt  him  no  blow  as  she  passed  too  close,  her 
mighty  wings  had  as  yet  but  fanned  him  from  afar. 
There  was  no  signature  of  care  or  joy  or  sin  about  eyes 
and  mouth  and  forehead:  the  face  had  no  history:  was 
like  a  fine  new  building,  needing  the  scars  and  mellowing 
of  time  to  temper  it  to  beauty. 

But  Laura  missed  nothing.  Laura,  who  never  saw  a 
fault  in  anything  she  loved,  could  not  be  expected  to  find 
faultlessness  a  flaw.  If  Laura  thought  at  all,  if  the  hot, 
scented  quiet  of  the  afternoon  had  not  made  her  mind  as 
drowsy  as  Justin's  body,  her  thoughts  were  not  critical, 
only  observant,  as  they  strayed  with  her  eyes  in  a  voyage 
of  discoverey  over  the  face  that  she  was  never  tired  of 
watching. 

It  was  so  interesting  to  see  Justin  with  his  eyes  shut. 
...  It  altered  him  .  .  .  and  the  smoothing  of  the  faint 
habitual  frown  between  his  brows  .  .  .  gave  him — self-re- 
liant, self-sufficing  Justin — a  child 's  look,  a  defenceless  look, 
that  caused  her  a  strange,  maternal  pang.  It  made  her,  she 
did  not  know  why,  put  out  her  hand  to  him  and  touch  the 
rough  tweed  of  his  coat :  and  so  sit  patiently,  bent  forward 
a  little,  watching  over  him. 

He  woke  at  last,  noiselessly,  as  he  did  everything,  and 
surprised  her  intent  look. 

' '  Hullo,  Laura !    What 's  up  ? ' ' 

Laura  in  emergency  was  always  superb.  There  was  not 
the  adumbration  of  a  pause  between  his  question  and  her 
reply. 

"A  mosquito!  Keep  still!"  She  clapped  her  hands  to- 
gether over  an  imaginary  insect.  "They're  beginning  to 
bite.  You've  been  asleep.  Oh,  look!" 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  151 

A  rabbit,  startled  by  the  sudden  noise,  was  scattering 
into  its  hole,  fatly,  with  a  flicker  of  white  tail. 

Laura  laughed. 

"The  Duchess!  The  Duchess!  Oh,  my  dear  paws! 
Oh,  my  fur  and  whiskers!  Did  you  ever  see  such  a  drunken 
lollop?  He  was  tipsy  with  sunshine,  Justin.  You  know, 
it's  most  dissipated  for  a  rabbit  to  be  out  at  this  hour.  He 
ought  to  be  in  bed."  She  stretched  out  lazy  arms.  "Oh 
—isn't  it  hot?  How  you  can  stand  the  sun  pouring  down 
on  you  like  that !  Come  into  the  shade,  Justin — what  there 
is  of  it, .at  least." 

She  moved  a  little,  leaving  him  half  the  ragged  patch  of 
shadow  from  the  sloe-bush  under  which  she  sat.  She 
loved  woods  and  shadow  and  cool,  as  Justin  loved  heat  and 
sunshine  and  open  spaces ;  but  unless  she  had  owned,  as  she 
would  not  do,  to  her  one  vanity,  her  delicate  skin,  she  was 
never  allowed  more  than  a  sloe-bush  for  shelter. 

But  today  Justin  was  ready  to  agree  that  the  sun  might 
be  too  hot  even  for  him.  He  dragged  himself  into  the 
shade  and  sat  beside  her,  pulling  idly  at  the  yellow  heads 
of  hawksbit  that  shone  like  midget  suns  in  the  cropped 
grass,  while  he  stared  out  over  the  wide  country  that  ran 
down  from  the  bare  hot  chalk  slope  into  the  green  valley 
land,  and  up  again  to  hilltops  pale  as  the  sky. 

"Not  bad,"  he  drawled  at  last,  "not  half  bad!  Do  you 
know  anything  like  it  ?  " 

Laura  pronounced  judgment. 

"I  don't  believe  I'm  biassed.  The  Alps — were  the  Alps. 
And  I  loved  the  Rhone — and  I've  seen  Italy — and  I've 
heard  Oliver  talk  about  Greece.  But  all  of  them — all 
Europe — is  only  a  setting  for  England — and  England's 
only  a  setting  for  Kent — and  Kent's  only  a  setting  for 
Brackenhurst.  I  believe  I  love  Brackenhurst  as  if  it  were 
a  person.  How  I  shall  ever  leave  I  don't  know!" 

"Leave  it!  Leave  it!  How  d'you  mean,  leave  it?" 
He  was  irritated.  He  always  disliked  even  a  hint  of 


152  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

change:  it  implied  discomfort.  He  shrank  in  angry  bore- 
dom from  spring-cleaning,  and  death,  and  new  acquaint- 
ances. 

Laura  laughed. 

' '  Oh,  not  for  a  year  or  two.  But — dear  old  Gran  'papa ! 
— he's  wonderful,  of  course.  D'you  know  that  he  does  his 
mile  to  the  post  and  back  every  day  still?  Will  do  it. 
But  he's  eighty  for  all  that.  Is  it  hateful  of  me  to  think 
ahead?" 

Justin  gave  his  thoughtful  grunt. 

"Of  course,  if  the  boys  helped — cared  about  Green 
Gates — we  could  stay  on.  But  you  know  what  Wilfred 
and  James  are.  Besides,  they're  bound  to  get  married." 

He  gave  her  a  quick  look.  But  her  grave,  innocent  eyes 
were  fixed  on  the  distant  hills. 

Justin's  grunt  was  more  pronounced  than  ever. 

She  continued.  She  enjoyed  submitting  her  simple 
plans.  It  was  so  seldom  that  Justin  was  in  a  listening 
mood. 

"Oh,  I've  thought  it  out.  When  I  have  to — I'm  going 
to  teach.  You  know  my  literature  and  English  are  pretty 
good.  I  can  get  a  berth  at  my  old  school  any  day. 
They've  told  me  so.  Well  then,  you  see — if  I  have  a  screw 
of  my  own — there'll  be  plenty  over  if  we  let  Green  Gates, 
to  take  old  Mrs.  Golding's  lodge  at  the  top  of  the  village. 
It  wouldn't  be  fair  to  uproot  Aunt  Adela  altogether.  And 
then — "  triumphantly  she  set  the  roofing  on  her  castle-in- 
the-air,  ' '  I  can  come  home  for  all  the  holidays.  I  shall  still 
belong  here."  Then,  a  little  anxiously — "Shan't  I, 
Justin?" 

He  frowned.     He  did  not  answer  her. 

Her  face  fell. 

"Don't  you What  do  you  think?" 

"I've  never  heard  such  utter  rot  in  my  life,"  said  Justin. 
He  paused.  He1  considered.  Then  he  delivered  himself, 
judgmatically. 

"I  don't  like  it,"  said  Justin.    "I  don't  like  the  idea. 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  153 

I  don't  like  it  at  all.  Teaching!  I  don't  know  what's  got 
into  you, ' '  he  grumbled. 

He  was  not  thinking  of  her  and  she  knew  it.  Yet  his 
annoyance  was  an  exquisite  gratification.  She  knew  that 
he  would  miss  her,  but  she  had  not  expected  that  he  would 
realize  it  beforehand.  She  had  looked  for  interest,  con- 
gratulation even.  She  had  not  dared  hope  for  concern. 

"You  know,"  he  pursued,  "the  old  lady  won't  like  it 
either.  She's  got  so  used  to  you." 

He  was  distinctly  worried. 

"So  have  I,  for  that  matter,"  he  volunteered. 

He  fidgeted  with  his  ear. 

"It's  a  problem,"  he  said. 

Laura  said  nothing. 

"Isn't  it?"  he  appealed  to  her  in  his  turn. 

She  roused  herself. 

"Oh  no!  I've  practically  decided  it  all.  Aunt  Adela 
will  expect  me  to  make  up  her  mind,  just  as  Gran 'papa 
does  for  her  now.  It  will  work  all  right." 

"There  are  all  those  eggs  and  things  to  be  seen  to  when 
I'm  away.  And  not  a  maid  I  can  trust!"  He  laughed; 
yet  there  was  a  touch  of  real  injury  in  his  tone.  "I  sup- 
pose you  haven't  thought  of  that?" 

' '  Oh,  Justin — I  'd  stay  if  I  could, ' '  said  Laura  piteously. 
"You  don't  suppose  I  shall  enjoy  leaving — home?" 

"Well,  but — look  here "    He  paused  again. 

"I  shall  be  back  for  all  the  holidays,"  she  consoled  her- 
self and  him.  "And  your  mother  isn't  bed-ridden,  you 
know.  There'll  be  plenty  to  take  my  place." 

"Yes,  but  she'll  miss  you." 

' '  I  hope  so, ' '  said  Laura  wistfully. 

He  flushed. 

"I  daresay  you'll  be  surprised  to  hear  me  say  so,"  he 
prepared  her,  "but  so  shall  I." 

Laura  glowed. 

"I'm  awfully  glad." 

"But  why  should  you "  he  began  again. 


154.  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

"Not  yet,  Justin.  Gran 'papa  may  live  another  two 
years.  But  he's  breaking  up.  I  noticed  the  difference  at 
once.  It's  the  winter  that  the  doctor  is  afraid  of — poor 
Gran  'papa ! ' ' 

"But  even  then "     Justin  pursued  his  own  thoughts. 

Then  with  an  effort :     ' '  Look  here !     Why  shouldn  't  you — 

Why    shouldn't    we — I    mean Look    here,    Laura! 

Would  you  care  to  stay  on  here — marry  me?     Then  we 
needn't  have  any  upset." 

"Justin!" 

' '  Will  you  ?     Honestly — it  wouldn  't  be  a  bit  a  bad  idea. ' ' 

Laura  faced  him  with  grave,  scarlet-cheeked  dignity. 

"I  don't  think — I  don't  think — I  don't  like  that  sort  of 
joke.  It's  not  like  you.  It's  hateful!"  She  was  in- 
tensely distressed. 

He  opened  his  serious  eyes. 

"Joke?" 

She  stared  at  him,  lips  parted. 

"Justin!     You    can't    mean — you    couldn't    mean — 
Aren  't  you  pulling  my  leg  ?     Justin,  you  couldn  't  possibly 
be  in  earnest?" 

Some  depth  in  his  nature  was  stirred  by  her  tone.  He 
leant  forward  quite  eagerly. 

"Will  you  marry  me,  then?  Naturally  I'm  in  earnest. 
I'm  awfully  fond  of  you — really.  And  the  old  lady  will 
be  tremendously  pleased.  Will  you  marry  me?" 

She  looked  at  him,  breathless,  her  lips  trembling,  day 
dawning  in  her  eyes. 

"Oh,  Justin — oh,  Justin — what  do  you  think?  Of 
course  I  will!" 

"That's  all  right  then!" 

There  was  naive  complacency  in  his  tone:  it  expressed 
his  sense  of  a  wise  measure  successfully  concluded — no 
more.  No  more — yet  for  an  instant  he  had  remained  lean- 
ing towards  her  with  the  strangest  mingling  of  indecision, 
emotion  and  intention  in  his  pose,  as  if  his  body  were  wiser 
than  his  soul. 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  155 

But  she,  because  she  was  frightened  of  her  own  happi- 
ness, and  of  him  and  his  quick  movement,  sat  quite  still, 
restraining  the  answering  gesture  that  would  have  won 
him:  and  the  moment  passed  like  a  flower  without  fruit. 
Justin,  lazing  back  again,  smiled  at  her  with  his  immemo- 
rial air  of  comfortable  affection.  Dear  old  Laura!  .  .  . 
He  was  satisfied — pleased  with  himself  and  her.  Minor 
satisfactions,  seen  reminiscently,  subconsciously,  out  of 
the  tail  of  his  mind's  eye — the  summer  day,  the  summer 
sun,  the  eggs  in  his  collecting  box,  the  crisp,  crunchable 
lettuce  at  lunch,  his  pipe  and  the  smoke  of  his  pipe — 
all  added  their  mites  to  the  sum  of  his  content.  Dear  old 
Laura!  .  .  . 

Her  voice  added  itself  soothingly  to  his  meditations.  He 
thought,  as  he  listened  to  her,  that  old  Valentine  had 
talked  through  his  hat  that  morning.  .  .  .  Laura  rough? 
Laura  shrill?  Why,  even  he  himself  had  never  noticed 
before  how  low  and  soft  her  voice  was.  .  .  . 

For  Laura  was  talking — talking  for  time :  she  feared  the 
silence  that  had  fallen  upon  them.  She  was  not  ready  to 
be  confronted  with  her  naked  bliss.  Feverishly  she  sought 
for  words  in  which  to  clothe,  to  veil  it  from  herself.  Yet 
she  could  think  of  nothing  else.  She  began — 

"Justin — I'll  be  so  good  to  you.  You'll  see.  I'll  never 
get  in  your  way.  I'll  learn  cooking.  I'll  never  read  books 

till  after  tea.  I'll  do  everything "  The  sentence  died 

away  happily. 

"I  must  say "  there  was  distinct  gratification  in 

Justin's  grave  voice,  ''it  seems  an  excellent  idea.  I  won- 
der I  never  thought  of  it  before.  Mother '11  be  awfully 
bucked.  She  likes  you,  you  know."  He  paused  for 
Laura's  gratitude. 

But  Laura,  her  heart  full  of  dreams,  forgot  to  respond. 

"And  I  can  tell  you,  you  ought  to  be  jolly  pleased.  It 
isn't  every  one  Mother  likes,"  he  added  impressively. 

"Of  course  I'm  pleased."  Laura  smiled.  "But  I  knew 
she  did,  Justin.  She  was  always  good  to  me.  It  was  you 


156  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

— I  didn't  know — I  never  thought "  She  checked  her- 
self prettily. 

"That's  why,"  he  continued  calmly,  "it  seems  such  a 
good  arrangement.  You  know,  I  never  have  liked  the 
idea  of  her  being  alone  when  I'm  away:  only  she  never 
will  have  any  one  but  old  Mary.  But  if  I  knew  you  were 
in  the  house  I  shouldn't  be  uneasy.  I  shouldn't  have  to 
hurry  back  so,  then." 

She  lifted  her  head.  For  an  instant  her  eyes  had  a 
strange,  wise  look  in  them,  as  if  some  older  self,  till  then 
quiescent  in  her,  were  roused  in  her  defence — were  watch- 
ing him  with  knowledge  and  foreboding  of  pain. 

The  look  passed  in  a  smile,  smile  at  Justin  verging  upon 
unusual  enthusiasm;  yet,  though  she  herself  did  not  know 
it,  the  look  had  been  there. 

"Oh,  it'll  make  a  big  difference,  Laura,  I  can  tell  you," 
he  was. concluding.  "All  the  difference  in  the  world." 

"AM  the  difference  in  the  world,"  repeated  Laura  after 
him. 

-"There's  that  expedition "  he  burst  out  again  as,  his 

impedimenta  shouldered  and  the  greasy  luncheon-papers 
tucked  down  a  rabbit  hole,  they  walked  home  together 
through  the  deep  lanes.  "You  know — it's  still  a  possi- 
bility. Bellew  promised  me  the  first  refusal,  though  I've 
practically  told  him  I  couldn't  manage  it.  And  yet — to 
miss  such  a  chance !  But  now — once  we  're  married — eggs ! 
Think  of  it,  Laura !  Up  and  down  every  cliff  from  Lundy 
to  the  Orkneys — with  Bellew.  Bellew!  I  tell  you  he 
knows  more  about  birds  than  any  man  in  England.  Wish 
I  weren't  such  a  rotten  sailor,  but  that's  a  detail."  He 
drew  a  deep  breath.  "And  I  haven't  any  gulls  yet,  you 
know.  Remember  those  specimens  at  old  Greets'  sale? 
I'm  glad  now  I  didn't  buy  'em.  Not  the  same — bought 
stuff.  But  to  sweat  up  a  cliff  in  a  gale,  hanging  on  by  your 
teeth  and  your  toe-nails  to  get  at  a  nest  yourself,  with  the 
fat  old  mother-bird  not  knowing  enough  to  get  out  of  your 
way — some '11  let  you  lift  them  right  off  before  they'll 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  157 

budge,  you  know — that'll  be  sport!  Wish  you  could 
come. ' ' 

"Wish  I  could.     Oh,  Justin — I  suppose  I  couldn't?" 

' '  Oh,  no — it 's  not  a  woman 's  show, ' '  he  amended  hastily. 
' '  It  means  roughing  it,  you  know.  But  when  I  get  back, ' ' 
he  consoled  her,  "you  shall  do  all  the  classification.  And 
honestly,  Laura — it'll  be  jolly  nice  knowing  you're  at  home 
to  come  back  to.  There'll  be  a  heap  to  do,  sorting,  and 
printing  photographs.  By  the  way,  you'd  better  keep  my 
letters.  They'll  be  useful  to  refer  to." 

"Yes,  Justin,"  said  Laura,  as  one  instructed.  If  her 
thoughts  turned  for  an  instant's  satisfied  inspection  of  a 
certain  locked  box  in  a  certain  locked  drawer  of  her  dress- 
ing-table, her  smile  gave  no  hint  of  it  to  Justin.  And 
Justin's  mother  was  not  there. 

Thus  ran  their  love-talk  on  that  first  afternoon,  as  they 
wandered  home  together.  But  even  when  they  reached 
Green  Gates,  and  Laura  stood  on  one  side  of  them  and  he 
on  the  other,  Justin  found  it  difficult  to  tear  himself  away. 
Between  his  eggs  and  his  engagement  he  was  nearer  excite- 
ment than  Laura  had  ever  known  him. 

But  Laura,  too  absorbed  in  him  to  listen  to  him  at  all, 
had  grown  quiet,  so  quiet  that  at  last  even  he  must  notice 
and  be  concerned. 

"Don't  you  think  so,  Laura?  Laura!  I  say,  Laura, 
is  anything  up  ? " 

"Oh  no,  Justin." 

He  took  her  hand,  awkwardly,  through  the  bars  of  the 
gate,  with  that  look  of  boyish,  embarrassed  kindliness  that 
could  always  make  Laura,  at  least,  give  and  forgive  him 
anything. 

"I  say,  old  girl — it  is  all  right?  You  are  pleased  too? 
You  think  it's  a  good  idea?" 

"The  expedition?" 

"Oh — that  too!  But  this  notion  of  our  getting  mar- 
ried?" 

She  looked  up  at  him. 


158  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

"It's  made  me  awfully  happy,  Justin." 

"Has  it?  Good.  That's  right.  So  it  has  me.  And  so 
it  will  Mother.  I  say,  I  ought  to  be  home  by  now — telling 
her.  It  must  be  near  tea-time  too.  You're  coming  round 
tonight,  aren't  you?" 

"I  was— before— 

"Good!     Come  along  early." 

Laura  flushed  brightly,  but  she  said  nothing. 

He  looked  puzzled. 

"Can't  you?" 

Laura  looked  at  him  between  laughter  and  that  suspi- 
cious brightening  of  her  dark  eyes  that  had  never  yet  had 
any  meaning  for  Justin. 

"I  thought  it  was  all  arranged,"  he  said  rather  im- 
patiently. 

"Was  it?"  She  pulled  a  splinter  from  the  gate-post 
and  with  it  prodded  a  scuttling  ant  up  and  down  the  little 
white  groove. 

"Wasn't  it?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  then?" 

"You  might  fetch  me,  Justin,"  said  Laura  desperately. 

' '  Oh,  all  right.    But  why  ?    It 's  not  a  bit  dark ! ' ' 

Laura  did  not  attempt  to  explain. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

JUSTIN  hurried  off  down  the  road.  Laura  waited  a  little 
while,  looking  after  him,  ready  to  wave  and  smile  if  he 
should  look  back.  He  would  have  seen,  if  he  had  been 
Oliver  to  perceive  it,  a  pretty  enough  picture,  for  the 
rockery  behind  her  glowed  like  a  Persian  carpet,  and  she 
stood  at  the  gate  between  the  copper-black  hollyhocks,  a 
princesse  lointaine  among  her  Nubians,  looking  out  so 
eagerly  over  the  bars,  hands  half  raised  for  beckoning. 

But  Justin,  even  if  he  had  thought  of  it,  had  not  time 
to  look  back.  As  it  was,  he  barely  escaped  being  late  for 
his  tea. 

Laura,  when  the  bend  of  the  road  had  quite  hidden  him, 
gave,  for  all  her  wistful  last  glances,  a  little  sigh  of  relax- 
ation. She  had  held  him  while  she  could,  and  counted 
each  moment  a  gain ;  yet  she  had  wanted  him  to  go.  Her 
instinct,  standing  godmother  to  her  inexperience,  put  her 
on  her  guard,  would  not  allow  her  to  show  him  the  in- 
tensity of  the  happiness  he  had  created  in  her.  Yet  dis- 
cretion was  not  easy,  with  the  lust  of  self -confession — that 
age-old  familiar  of  a  woman  in  love — playing  its  devil's 
game  with  her  self-control.  She  wanted  to  be  alone — she 
who  was  Psyche  in  Olympus,  the  first  draught  of  nectar 
driving  dizzily  through  her  veins :  she  knew  she  must  have 
breathing-pause,  must  for  an  instant  put  down  the  inex- 
haustible cup,  lest  the  immortal  wine  should  choke  her. 

She  turned  from  the  road,  and  swerving  aside,  like  a  shy 
beast,  from  the  eyes  of  the  many-windowed  house,  sped 
down  the  warden  paths  to  the  orchard,  that  immemorial 
play-ground,  her  kingdom  of  deep  grass  and  monstrous 
buttercups,  an  Avalon  at  whose  corners  oaks  stood  guar- 

159 


160  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

dian,  whose  brook-rooted  bramble  hedges,  high  and  over- 
hanging, walled  it  impenetrably  against  the  outer  world. 

She  did  not  stay  to  secure  the  rickety  gate,  and  it  clicked 
and  cluttered  behind  her  like  a  cracked  bell  as  she  ran 
on  through  the  sunshine  and  the  grass  to  the  little  shady 
hollow  beyond  the  apple  trees  and  there  flung  herself  upon 
the  ground,  like  a  child  dropping  headlong  upon  its 
mother's  lap. 

And  because  she  had  no  mother,  and  her  heart  was  full, 
she  turned  in  all  simplicity  to  her  prayers.  Overhead  a 
lark  was  singing,  and  she  listened,  her  chin  in  her  fists,  her 
elbows  digging  into  the  soft  earth,  her  broken  phrases 
swelling  his  ecstasy — 

"Almighty  God,  Father  of  all  goodness — most  humble 

and  hearty  thanks O  God,  I  am  so  utterly  happy.  If 

You  only  knew  how  grateful — how  grateful — my  creation 
and  preservation  and  all  the  blessings  of  my  life — because, 
of  course,  I  see  now,  they  were  all  blessings — Gran 'papa 
and  being  poor  and  everything,  or  I  shouldn't  have  known 
Justin.  0  God,  I  do  thank  You  so — for  making  Justin  and 
for  letting  me  know  him  and  for  letting  him  care — and 
for  all  Thy  goodness  and  loving  kindness  to  me  and  all 
men.  I  will  be  so  good  to  him,  God — I  promise — I  promise 
— I  will  always  be  good  now.  O  God,  teach  me  to  be  good 
enough  and  to  understand  him,  so  that  he  doesn  't  get  tired : 
and  I  pray  Thee  give  me  that  due  sense  of  all  Thy  mer- 
cies   Yes,  I  have,  I  have  that  due  sense  and  I  will 

show  forth  Thy  praise,  always,  always — only  please  God, 
teach  me  to  be  good  enough  that  he  may  never  be  disap- 
pointed and  that  I  may  make  him  happy,  for  Jesus  Christ 's 
sake.  Amen." 

She  ceased,  exhausted  by  her  own  passion ;  but  the  lark 's 
song  continued,  welling  up  untroubled  like  a  spring  of 
pure  water,  from  the  infinite  calm  of  the  sky. 


CHAPTER  XX 

IF,  a  year  or  two  later,  you  could  have  persuaded  Mrs. 
Cloud  to  tell  you  her  thoughts,  she  would  have  said  that  she 
always  considered  the  engagement  ring  to  be  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  whole  wretched  business.  If  Laura  had  begun 
by  being  firm  .  .  .  but  Laura,  she  could  not  help  feeling, 
had  been  lamentably  wanting  in  backbone  where  Justin 
was  concerned.  .  .  .  For  Justin  had  his  faults.  .  .  .  She 
was  his  mother,  but  she  was  not  like  some  mothers.  .  .  . 
She  was  perfectly  willing  to  admit  that  Justin  had  his 
faults.  .  .  .  Oh,  well — you  could  scarcely  call  them  faults, 
perhaps  that  would  be  too  strong,  but — well,  he  was  in- 
clined to  be  dreamy  sometimes:  he  had  certainly  been 
dreamy  over  the  engagement  ring.  .  .  .  But  still,  she  could 
not  help  feeling  that  that  was  Laura's  fault.  .  .  .  Laura 
should  have  been  firm.  .  .  . 

Oh,  of  course,  if  Laura  liked  Justin  to  ride  rough-shod 
over  her,  well  and  good!  But  then  she  should  not  have 
turned  upon  him  afterwards !  And  that  was  just  it — if 
they  had  been  openly  engaged  it  was  quite  reasonable  that 
they  should  have  had  their  differences :  their  slack  months, 
so  to  speak,  would  not  have  mattered  in  the  least.  .  .  . 
The  engagement  ring  would  have  fixed  their  status.  But 
as  it  was.  .  .  . 

If  Laura  had  had  proper  pride,  if  she  had  even  shown 
that  she  was  disappointed — for,  of  course,  she  must  have 

been  disappointed Oh!  (Mrs.  Cloud's  smile  would 

deprecate  her  worldliness)  if  she  had  done  no  more  than 
talk  for  a  day  or  two  of  how  fond  she  was  of  rubies  or 
of  pearls  or  whatever  it  was — why,  then  Justin  would  have 
got  the  idea  well  into  his  head,  and  the  ring  would  have 

161 


162  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

been  bought!  Nobody  could  say  that  Justin  was  not 
generous.  .  .  .  He  must  have  spent  pounds  on  the  books 
he  brought  back  that  very  day  for  Laura.  .  .  .  But  still— 
they  weren't  an  engagement  ring  and  nothing  would  make 
them  one.  .  .  . 

Thus  far — but  you  would  never  have  got  it  out  of  her — 
a  reminiscent  Mrs.  Cloud. 

But  besides  Mrs.  Cloud  there  had  been  Brackenhurst  to 
consider.  Brackenhurst  also  had  wanted  an  engagement 
ring.  Without  that  certificate  Mr.  Cloud  and  Miss  Laura 
Valentine  might  'understand*  each  other — Brackenhurst 
had  arranged  long  ago  for  them  to  do  that — but  it  coul<J 
not  call  them  engaged.  Indeed,  it  had  at  last,  in  despera- 
tion, circulated  the  rumour  that  old  Mr.  Valentine  had 
Put  his  Foot  Down.  Old  Mr.  Valentine,  who  still  called 
his  grey-haired  daughter  and  the  niece  who  sometimes  came 
to  stay  'the  girls,'  who  locked  the  front  door,  winter  and 
summer,  at  ten  o'clock,  and  thereafter  sat  up  for  strayed 
revellers  in  his  skull-cap  and  dressing-gown,  with  a  candle 
in  one  hand  and  his  great  gold  watch  open  in  the  other, 
and  an  expression  upon  his  face  that  few  cared  to  encoun- 
ter twice — old  Mr.  Valentine,  it  was  said,  had  permitted  no 
public  engagement  until  Laura  was  one-and-twenty. 

It  was  a  useful  rumour,  one  that  satisfied  Brackenhurst 
and  did  not  displease  Mrs.  Cloud.  Because,  you  see,  it 
would  have  been  difficult  to  explain  to  the  incredulous  that 
there  was  no  engagement  ring  on  Laura's  finger  because — 
because — well,  to  tell  you  the  truth  (Aunt  Adela  would 
have  done  it  more  unctuously  than  Mrs.  Cloud),  the  fact 
was  that  dear  Justin  kept  on  forgetting  to  buy  one !  And 
Laura — a  good  girl,  but,  between  you  and  Aunt  Adela, 
with  curious  ideas  sometimes — apparently  didn't  mind! 
Yes.  Unconventional.  Very.  And  so  was  Mr.  Cloud. 

Oh,  of  course,  if  they  were  satisfied But  personally — 

Aunt  Adela  would  not  say  so  to  every  one — but  personally, 
she  must  say — yes,  exactly ! 

Aunt  Adela  would  have  enjoyed  herself. 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  163 

You  do  understand  that  it  was  pure  absent-mindedness 
on  Justin's  part?  When  Justin  told  his  mother  the  news 
and  the  first  congratulations  were  over,  and  Mrs.  Cloud 
had  kissed  him  and  he  had  re-sketched  to  her  in  delightful 
detail  his  ideas  for  the  future,  and  Mrs.  Cloud  had  neither 
assented  nor  dissented,  but  with  her  wise  smile  had  listened 
and  changed  the  subject  and  talked  to  him  about  Laura 
till  he  began  to  fidget — because,  after  all,  he  knew  all  about 
Laura,  there  was  nothing  new  to  say  of  Laura  exactly — 
after  that  pleasant  talk  had  died  out  and  they  had  sat  silent 
a  while,  Mrs.  Cloud  had  turned  in  her  chair  and  begun  to 
ask  lighter  questions  and  so  touched  upon  the  subject  of 
the  ring. 

' '  Oh — the  ring ! ' '  Justin  opened  his  eyes.  He  had  been 
staring  at  the  light  window  till  he  was  nearly  asleep. 
"Oh,  of  course.  A  ring!  Yes,  I  hadn't  thought  of  that. 
I  '11  run  up  to  town  tomorrow. ' ' 

Then  he  had  asked  his  mother's  advice,  and  they  had 
discussed  the  rival  merits  of  pearls  and  emeralds  and  old 
settings,  till  Justin,  always  thorough,  and  growing  inter- 
ested, had  got  down  the  Encyclopaedia  and  the  dictionary 
with  plates.  He  had  broken  off  in  the  middle  to  go  and 
fetch  his  Laura,  very  full  indeed  of  his  subject.  And 
Laura  had  arrived,  with  a  shy,  glowing  look  about  her  that 
had  touched  Mrs.  Cloud;  but  they  were  not  allowed  to  do 
more  than  kiss  each  other  before  Laura  was  engaged  in  dis- 
cussion with  Justin  as  to  whether  the  biblical  jasper  were 
the  modern  diamond,  and  if  not  why  not?  They  got  quite 
heated  about  it.  Mrs.  Cloud  sat  by  and  listened,  and 
thought  how  clever  they  both  were,  and  that  Justin  was  the 
cleverer  but  that  Laura  talked  faster :  and  occupied  herself 
the  while  with  taking  the  exact  size  of  Laura's  third  finger 
from  her  left-hand  glove.  The  evening  was  a  very  pleas- 
ant one,  though  upon  the  whole  more  instructive  than 
romantic.  Of  all  three,  I  suppose,  Mrs.  Cloud  went  to 
bed  the  happiest.  Laura  dreamed  of  a  bare  hill-side  and 
t^  scent  of  thyme  and  of  a  bird  singing  in  the  sun.  Justin 


164.  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

dreamed  of  nothing  at  all.  But  Mrs.  Cloud  dreamed  quite 
shamelessly  of  grandchildren. 

Justin  went  up  to  town  the  next  day,  only  for  a  couple  of 
hours,  with  the  measurements  in  his  pocket.  He  spent 
most  of  his  time  at  South  Kensington  and  the  Jermyn 
Street  Museum,  and  did  not  get  back  within  the  week.  His 
crazes  were  always  as  thorough  as  they  were  sudden.  He 
forgot  all  about  his  birds'  eggs  and  enjoyed  himself  very 
much :  and  brought  back,  as  I  told  you,  besides  a  new  tooth- 
brush, a  most  wonderful  and  expensive  book  on  precious 
stones,  Cellini 's  treatise,  Jones  on  finger  rings,  and  a  bound 
volume  of  the  Connoisseur  as  a  little  present  for  Laura. 

She  was  spending  the  afternoon  with  his  mother  on  the 
day  of  his  return,  and  after  tea  he  laid  his  gifts  in 
triumph  before  her.  Laura  could  look  at  such  books  for 
their  own  sake  where  Mrs.  Cloud  looked  at  them  for 
Justin's;  but  neither  motive  mattered  at  the  moment,  for 
Justin  was  still  so  delighted  with  them  that  at  first  he 
would  hardly  let  any  one  else  look  at  them  at  all.  Laura, 
over  his  shoulder,  was  as  unwearied  in  asking  questions  as 
he  in  answering,  and  he  had  more  or  less  unburdened  him- 
self, to  her  intent  ears,  of  all  he  had  seen  and  learned  and 
adventured,  before  Mrs.  Cloud,  verging  on  impatience  with 
the  cool  ways  of  your  modern  lovers,  could  find  a  pause 
in  which  to  ask  about  a  matter  of  importance. 

"And  what  else  did  you  bring  home,  Justin?"  She  had 
had  unpacked  his  bag  herself,  but  it  was  not  there.  Her 
eyes  were  doubtfully  on  his  slim  pockets. 

He  turned  over  his  purchases. 

"Jones — Connoisseur — Cellini Oh,  yes,  and  there's 

a  Punch  in  the  hall — "  he  turned  to  Laura  again:  " — as 
big  as  a  plum — and  a  colour!  In  one  case  alone.  Oh, 
you  've  got  to  come  up  with  me,  Laura.  You  've  never  seen 
anything  like  it.  Funny — I've  passed  that  room  dozens  of 
times  and  never  noticed  before.  But,  of  course,  I  was  al- 
ways after  eggs." 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  165 

Mrs.  Cloud  gave  up  trying  to  lead  the  conversation  where 
she  wanted  it  to  go.  She  cut  across  it. 

"Justin,  I'm  sure  Laura  is  longing  to  see  her  ring." 

Justin  frowned  absently. 

"Ring?  What  ring?  Oh— the  ring!  Oh,  I  say, 
Laura — I'm  awfully  sorry!  I'm  afraid  I  never  gave  it 
another  thought." 

"Oh,  it  doesn't  matter,"  said  Laura  brightly. 

Mrs.  Cloud  said  nothing  emphatically,  which  disturbed 
Justin  more  than  any  disapproval  of  Laura's  would  have 
done.  He  turned  blankly  from  his  books. 

"I  shall  be  up  again  in  a  few  days,"  he  assured  them. 
"Or  I  could  write,"  he  suggested  unhappily.  He  hated 
writing  letters. 

He  paused.     He  had  an  inspiration. 

"I  suppose  you  or  Mother  wouldn't  be  going  up?"  he 
wondered  hopefully. 

Mrs.  Cloud  said  nothing  more  emphatically  than  ever. 

"  I  '11  go  straight  up  again  tomorrow, ' '  he  decided,  an  eye 
on  his  mother. 

Laura  laughed. 

"What  nonsense!  Why,  you 're  only  just  back !  And  I 
found  a  corncrake 's  nest  yesterday.  Bother  the  old  ring ! ' ' 

His  face  cleared.     He  liked  Laura. 

"Well — if  you  wouldn't  mind  waiting  till  Tuesday,  we 
might  both  go  up.  A  corncrake?  Which  field?  Any 
good  for  a  photograph?  The  Museum's  shut  on  Mondays. 
And  then  we  could  choose  it  together.  After  all,  there's 
no  hurry,  is  there?" 

' '  Of  course  not, ' '  said  Laura. 

Mrs.  Cloud  could  have  shaken  her. 

They  went  up  together  on  Tuesday,  and,  according  to 
both  of  them,  had  a  ripping  time.  But  when  Mrs.  Cloud, 
alone  with  Laura  the  next  day,  took  the  girl's  two  hands  in 
her  own,  and  openly  and  gravely  looked  at  them,  she  found 
the  left  hand  as  bare  as  the  right. 


166  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

" Laura!"  Mrs.  Cloud's  voice  implied  that  she  was  not 
at  all  pleased  with  Laura. 

Laura  twinkled. 

"Mrs.  Cloud,  we  were  too  busy.  We  had  such  a  glorious 
day.  We  hadn't  time,  simply." 

"It's  ridiculous!"  Mrs.  Cloud's  tone  was  sharp.  She 
was  annoyed  with  Justin,  and  she  felt  that  it  was  too  bad 
of  Laura  to  put  her  in  the  position  of  being  annoyed  with 
Justion.  "You  might  have  reminded  him,"  she  said. 

Laura  looked  at  her. 

"Oh — I  might."     Her  tone  was  expressionless. 

Mrs.  Cloud's  gesture  disclaimed  all  future  responsibility 
for  any  one  at  all  in  the  world  whatever. 

"He'll  think  of  it  some  time  or  other,"  Laura  soothed 
her,  with  another  twinkle.  She  sat  smiling  to  herself  over 
Justin  and  his  ways  and  her  own  odd  delight  in  humouring 
them.  Then  a  new  thought  took  her  and  she  laughed  out- 
right. ' '  Oliver  would  have  had  it  in  his  pocket, ' '  she  said, 
"months  beforehand.  Poor  Oliver!" 

She  wondered  idly  what  should  bring  him  into  her  head 
again.  She  had  not  thought  of  him  for  so  long.  She  was 
astonished  to  find  herself  considering  him  indulgently,  all 
irritation  inexplicably  dissipated. 

"Oliver?" 

"Yes." 

Mrs.  Cloud's  eyebrows  were  expressive. 

"Was  he "  she  ventured. 

Laura  nodded. 

"Really!" 

Mrs.  Cloud  had  never  liked  Oliver,  but  she  neverthe- 
less felt  a  new  respect  for  Laura  on  his  account.  And  then, 
inevitably — 

"Does  Justin  know?" 

Laura  shrugged  her  shoulders.  She  was  discovering, 
with  a  touch  of  bewilderment,  how  much  she  had  changed 
in  less  than  three  months.  For,  instead  of  being  terrified 
at  the  mere  chance  of  Justin's  knowledge,  she  thought  that 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  167 

it  didn't  matter  after  all  if  he  did,  one  way  or  another, 
hear  a  disturbing  rumour  or  two.  Of  course,  she  would 

never  tell  him  herself,  but  if  Mrs.  Cloud In  fact,  she 

would  rather  like  Justin  to  know  what  Oliver  had  thought 
about  her  three  months  ago.  That  Oliver  might  have  his 
own  feelings  on  the  subject  simply  did  not  occur  to  her,  any 
more  than  she  knew  why  she  should  like  Justin  to  know. 
But  she  knew  that  she  did  wish  it  and  that  she  was  tempted 
to  use  Mrs.  Cloud  to  accomplish  her  wish;  also,  that  for 
some  reason  or  other,  she  was  feeling  vaguely  ashamed  of 
herself.  For  it  was  about  an  upright  and  sensitive  spirit 
that  the  Maya-veil  of  love  had  been  cast.  Laura  would 
have  been  an  honest  soul  if  she  had  not  been  a  woman. 
As  it  was  she  at  least  tried  to  change  the  subject  with — 

"Do  you  know  when  Rhoda  and  Lucy  come  back,  Mrs. 
Cloud?" 

Mrs.  Cloud  would  not  be  diverted. 

"I  cannot  understand  Justin,"  said  Mrs.  Cloud.  Her 
eyes  were  on  Laura's  hand  again. 

Laura  flushed. 

"It  doesn't  mean  anything — to  a  man,"  she  said  defen- 
sively, "no  more  than  a  tie-pin." 

"It's  so  unlike  Justin."  Mrs.  Cloud  assured  herself 
that  she  believed  what  she  said. 

"Oh  no,  Mrs.  Cloud."  Laura's  eyes  were  shrewd  as 
well  as  wistful.  "He  always  forgets  details.  You  know 
what  he  is.  You  see,  it  is  a  detail  to  him.  It  means  just 
nothing."  She  lifted  her  chin.  "I'm  glad.  I  like  him 
that  way." 

Mrs.  Cloud  was  frowning,  very  near  anger  for  once. 
And  yet.  .  .  .  Oh,  it  was  extraordinary  of  Justin  .  .  .  but 
she  could  not  think  that  it  was  all  his  fault.  .  .  .  Laura  had 
no  business  to  encourage  him.  .  .  . 

"I  shall  speak  to  Justin,"  she  said  stiffly. 

Laura  caught  her  arm  with  that  unseemly  naked  hand 
of  hers,  as  if  Mrs.  Cloud  were  rising  on  the  instant. 

"Oh  no,  Mrs.  Cloud.    Please!    I  should  hate  you  to. 


168  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

I  should  simply  hate  it.  I  don't  want  it — that  way.  If 

you  said  anything  to  him Oh,  please — you  wouldn't, 

would  you?" 

' '  I  can  say  what  I  like  to  my  own  son,  Laura, ' '  said  Mrs. 
Cloud  fiercely. 

"I  know.     I  know.     Of  course.     But " 

"But  what?"  said  Justin's  mother. 

"But — I'm  going  to  marry  him,"  said  Laura,  softly, 
but  quite  desperately. 

At  that  they  were  silent,  their  eyes  in  their  laps.  They 
were  both  hot  and  sore,  though  they  could  not  have  told 
why :  and  they  both  said  to  themselves  over  and  over  again 
that  they  must  make  allowances — make  allowances. 

Suddenly  Laura  put  her  hand  on  Mrs.  Cloud's  knee. 

"Mrs.  Cloud — dear  Mrs.  Cloud — I  didn't  mean — I  only 
wanted " 

"What  do  you  want,  Laura?" 

"I  don't  want  him  prompted,"  said  Laura  rather  piti- 
fully. "I  want  him  to  give  it  to  me  because  he  wants  to 
give  it  to  me.  Not  because  it's  the  thing  to  do.  I 
want "  She  laughed.  "I  want  too  much,  don't  I?" 

"Men  look  at  things  so  differently,"  said  Mrs.  Cloud  in 
her  turn.  Her  anger  had  come  and  gone  again  like  a  puff 
of  summer  wind. 

"Yes,  I  know." 

"He's  very  fond  of  you,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Cloud. 

"Yes.  But  men Oh,  I  wish  we  were  all  women," 

cried  Laura.  "Things  would  be  so  much  simpler.  One 
could  just  talk  them  out.  But  you  can't  talk  your  own 
language  to  a  man,  can  you?  We're  like  those  Indian 
princes  at  the  Durbar  from  the  north  and  the  south,  whose 
only  common  language  was  English.  Even  Justin  and  I 
talk  English,  I  suppose,  not  our  own  languages.  At  least 
— I'd  talk  mine,  only  Justin  gets  bored."  She  laughed 
suddenly.  "But  I'm  getting  a  smattering  of  his,"  said 
Laura  with  satisfaction,  "more  than  he  thinks.  I'll — 
I'll  surprise  him  some  day,  p'raps!  Am  not  I  thine  assf 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  169 

Wouldn't  Justin  jump?"  Her  eyes  danced.  She  looked 
as  wicked  as  a  cat — no  Laura  of  Justin's  acquaintance 
at  all. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you,  child?"  cried  Mrs.  Cloud 
bewildered,  and  at  that  her  mood  changed  and  her  face 
with  it.  She  slipped  down  on  to  the  floor,  half  sitting, 
half  kneeling  at  Mrs.  Cloud's  feet,  and  began  (an  old 
privilege)  to  play  with  the  loose  rings  on  the  beautiful 
hand  with  its  blue  raised  veins  and  its  skin  like  a  dried 
petal,  twisting  them  this  way  and  that  to  make  them 
sparkle. 

"Mrs.  Cloud?"  began  Laura  at  last. 

"Well?" 

"Mrs.  Cloud?"  Still  Laura  hesitated.  "Do  you 

think Is  it  always — two  languages?  When  one's 

married  a  long  time,  is  it  different  ? ' ' 

"Oh,  marriage  is  a  new  country  altogether."  Mrs. 
Cloud  was  smiling  again.  "You  both  get — naturalized,  I 
suppose. ' ' 

They  sat  in  silence  thinking  their  thoughts,  till  at  last 
Laura  gave  a  great,  happy  sigh. 

"It  will  be  lovely,  being  married  to  Justin,"  said  Laura 
dreamily. 

"It  ought  to  be,"  said  Mrs.  Cloud. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

I  SUPPOSE  that  we  all  know  summers  and  summers  and — 
The  Summer — the  one  summer  into  which,  for  whatever 
reason,  all  the  forgotten  others  pour  their  glories,  so  that 
for  ever  it  glows  in  our  minds,  an  Eden  of  sun  and  straw- 
berries and  roses  and  a  frock — that  was  a  pretty  frock!— 
and  remembered  sentences  that  still  speak  themselves  in 
our  ears  in  a  remembered  voice — a  summer  of  immortal  lit- 
tle things — a  joke,  a  glance,  a  daisy-chain,  a  head  turning 
quickly,  an  afternoon  in  the  hay.  The  other  summers  are 
well  enough,  but  their  flowers,  every  primrose  and  poppy 
of  them,  open  in  their  seasons  and  not  all  at  once :  and  they 
are  soon  over.  It  rains  for  days  in  other  summers.  But 
in  The  Summer 

"Oh,  no,  it  never  rained,"  Laura  would  tell  you.  "I 
know,  because  I  remember.  I  was  out  of  doors  with  Justin 
all  day  long." 

"What  about  meals?"  You  may  ask  her  that  if  you 
like.  She  will  only  look  at  you  pityingly. 

"What  did  you  do  all  day  long?" 

"We  walked— and  talked " 

"What  about?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.     It  was  a  lovely  summer " 

Justin  would  agree,  I  think.  It  was  The  Summer  for 
him  also,  the  summer  which  justified  him  in  calling  his 
eggs  "The  Collection,"  the  summer  when  he  had  not 
minded  asking  Bellew  down  to  have  a  look  at  it,  the  sum- 
mer of  lucky  finds  and  Laura's  idea — Bellew  had  been  very 
struck  with  Laura  and  her  method  of  labelling — of  collect- 
ing by  counties  .  .  .  The  Kent  section  had  been  practically 
completed  that  summer  .  .  .  the  same  summer,  by  the  way, 
that  he  and  Laura  got  engaged.  .  .  . 

170 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  171 

The  chill  New  Year  found  him  still  regretting  The  Sum- 
mer, and  suffering  from  his  usual  intellectual  bilious  at- 
tack; for  the  year  began  with  him  on  St.  Valentine's  Day, 
and  he  could  only  get  through  the  long  winter  evenings  by 
over-reading  himself  like  a  literary  Jack  Horner  home  for 
the  holidays.  He  grew  at  last  so  tired  of  himself  and 
Brackenhurst  that  he  began  to  talk,  to  the  amazed  delight 
of  his  mother,  of  a  house-party  ("and  Justin,  you  know, 
has  never  cared  for  young  people!")  But  Mrs.  Cloud's 
joyous — 

"Now,  whom  could  we  have?  Your  cousins  in  York? 
Rhoda  and  Lucy,  of  course.  The  Browns?  the  Jones'? 
the  Robinsons  ? ' '  made  no  impression.  Justin,  it  appeared, 
had  been  thinking  of — Bellew,  perhaps?  Laura  might 
come  across  for  a  night  or  two.  And  Oliver.  He  hadn't 
heard  from  Oliver  for  months.  He  ought  to  get  Oliver 
down. 

"Oh!     Oh,  very  well,"  said  Mrs.  Cloud. 

But  Oliver  (and  somehow  it  shocked  Laura)  Oliver  had 
married  a  wife.  He  wrote  from  Chelsea  to  Justin,  wisely, 
humorously,  as  from  age  to  heady  youth,  and  could  not 
possibly  come.  Justin  must  come  up  to  them  instead. 
Laura,  confronted  with  the  letter  and  a  "What  do  you 
think  of  that?"  wondered  aloud  that  he  did  not  sign  it 
Paterfamilias.  But  wasn't  it  typical  of  Oliver?  Justin, 
distinctly  disillusioned,  said — 

"Was  it?     How?" 

"Oh,  well,  you  know,  I  always  did  think " 

And  so  she  got  her  innings  at  last :  was  permitted  to  toy 
with  Oliver,  to  display  Oliver,  to  turn  him  round  and 
round,  to  blow  him  as  if  he  had  been  an  egg,  and  at  last, 
crunching  him  delicately  between  her  fingers,  hand  the 
pieces  to  a  converted  Justin  to  toss  into  the  waste-paper 
basket.  It  was  a  great  relief  to  her. 

Justin,  grunting  agreement  through  a  film  of  smoke,  and 
utterly  unaware  that  he  had  not  always  agreed,  opined  that 
all  the  same  he  must  look  up  Oliver.  Would  Laura  come? 


172  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

Laura  didn't  think  she  would. 

So  Justin  went  by  himself.  And  as  the  day  was  foggy 
and  his  boredom,  thicker  than  fog,  upon  him,  he  found 
Married  Life,  as  he  stumbled  in  upon  it  at  five  o'clock, 
sitting  on  the  studio  floor,  with  tea-things  and  firelight  and 
a  frieze  of  Oliver's  Italian  canvases  for  background,  a 
novel  and  attractive  picture. 

Married  Life  was  kind  to  him  and  gave  him  a  welcome, 
and  many  muffins,  besides  letting  him  smoke;  yet  because 
Married  Life  had  definitely,  though  quite  unobtrusively, 
another  set  of  delightful  manners  for  a  pampered  Oliver; 
because  too,  excellent  wife  as  she  seemed  to  be  making 
Oliver,  there  was  something  in  her  accent  and  her  voice, 
a  certain  obviousness  in  her  red  hair  (Oliver  had  been  more 
faithful  to  Laura  than  Laura  guessed)  and  because,  con- 
tradictorily, he  rather  enjoyed  the  black  challenge  of  her 
glances,  he  found  himself  reflecting  with  a  new  satisfaction 
upon  his  own  excellent  domestic  arrangements,  on  the 
browner  hair  and  softer  eyes  of  his  own  Married  Life  wait- 
ing for  him  in  the  quiet  Brackenhurst  future.  He  came 
home,  less  bored,  but  thoughtful,  and,  next  day,  spoke  to  his 
mother  seriously.  He  said  that  surely  a  year  was  long 
enough  for  Laura  to  fuss  about  with  a  trousseau.  He  said 
he  hated  dilly-dallying  in  this  way.  Laura  didn't  seem  to 
understand  how  a  man  felt.  How  much  longer  did  she 
propose  to  spin  out  the  engagement? 

Mrs.  Cloud  thought  he  had  better  talk  to  Laura. 

He  did.     He  said  to  her  firmly — 

"Whitsuntide." 

"Why,  yes,  if  you  like,  Justin,"  said  Laura.  And  he 
thought  that  she  need  not  have  taken  it  quite  so  calmly. 
One  didn't  get  married  every  day.  ...  It  was  a  big 
thing.  .  .  .  But  Laura  didn't  even  look  at  him  as  she  said, 
"Why,  yes,  if  you  like." 

He  found  suddenly  that  he  had  no  more  to  say  to  her. 
He  took  up  a  book,  while  she  sat  beside  him,  staring  into 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  173 

the  fire  and  warming  her  hands.  That  was  a  silent  after- 
noon. 

But  when  Bellew's  letter  arrived,  with  no  apologies,  but 
a  counter  invitation  to  Justin,  she  did  not  fail  him. 

The  long  projected  expedition  with  its  cameras  and  its 
ropes  and  its  collecting  boxes  was  to  set  forth  that  spring 
with  or  without  Justin — but  couldn't  Justin  go? 

Could  Justin  go?  Laura  saw  the  look  on  his  face. 
Foolishly,  knowing  he  would  go,  she  could  not  bear  to  hear 
him  say  so.  She  interposed  swiftly,  smiling  at  him  in  the 
way  he  liked — 

"Oh,  Justin,  how  jolly.  You're  going,  aren't  you?  Of 
course  you  must  go.  It  '11  be  the  making  of  the  collection. ' ' 

He  looked  at  her,  brightening,  but  dubious. 

' '  But  Whitsuntide  ?    We  'd  nearly  fixed ! ' ' 

She  would  not  let  him  finish. 

"What  does  it  matter?  There 's  heaps  of  time.  I '11  look 
after  your  mother.  You  '11  never  get  such  a  chance  again. ' ' 

"No — no.  That's  true."  He  tried  to  speak  doubtfully, 
but  he  could  not  help  smiling  at  Laura.  He  liked  Laura. 
He  wished,  but  it  did  not  occur  to  him  to  tell  her  that  he 
wished,  that  she  could  come  too. 

"As  you  say,"  he  permitted  himself  to  be  persuaded, 
"we  can  get  married  any  time.  But  a  chance  like 
this " 

"Why,  of  course!"  said  Laura. 

"And  Whitsun  would  have  been  a  rush  anyway.  You 
know,  we  might  have  got  the  whole  thing  done  by  now  if 
we'd  only  thought,"  he  reproached  himself  and  her.  "Oh, 
well — next  autumn — or  say  Christmas?  Christmas  is  al- 
ways a  slack  time.  And  now  about  kit " 

Together  they  looted  Gamage's. 

For  the  history  of  the  next  four  months  I  refer  you  to 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Albert  Edward  Kimpton,  who  lived  in  the 
brick  cottage,  darkened  with  honeysuckle  and  wild  fuchsia, 
where  earwigs  dropped  friendily  on  to  your  shoulder  as 


174  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

you  stooped  your  way  down  a  step  into  the  dark  little  post 
office  to  buy  peppermints  or  ask  for  letters.  Albert  de- 
livered the  letters  in  the  morning,  but  in  the  afternoon  you 
bought  them  from  Mrs.  Kimpton  at  the  price  of  a  gossip. 
Albert  Edward  can  bear  witness  that  there  was  generally 
a  picture  postcard  for  Miss  Laura,  who  had  got  into  the 
way  of  meeting  him  at  the  gate,  on  the  same  day  that  he  had 
to  go  up  to  the  Priory  with  a  letter — which  was  not  every 
week:  and  Mrs.  Kimpton  can  tell  you  just  how  often  Mrs. 
Cloud  drove  up  in  the  pony  cart  at  three  o'clock  to  fetch 
groceries,  and  met  Miss  Laura  in  the  doorway  buying  her 
grandfather  his  stamps. 

The  months  worked  out,  I  think,  though  I  have  forgotten 
Mrs.  Kimpton 's  figures,  at  a  letter  a  fortnight  to  Mrs. 
Cloud  and  a  postcard  in  ten  days  to  Laura,  besides  the 
stray  windfalls  in  the  way  of  enclosures,  generally  oologi- 
cal,  that  supplemented,  though  Mrs.  Kimpton  could  not 
know  it,  Laura's  parish  church  interiors. 

They  wished,  Mrs.  Cloud  and  Laura,  that  he  could  have 
written  more  regularly,  but  of  course  it  was  his  holiday. 
Once  there  was  a  gap  of  three  weeks  and  five  days.  But 
when  the  letter  came  it  was  "so  chatty"  as  Aunt  Adela 
said  (there  was  never  anything  in  Justin's  letters  that  you 
could  not  read  aloud)  that  it  would  have  been  churlish  to 
remonstrate,  and  indeed  they  did  not  expect  long  letters: 
they  merely  wished  sometimes  to  themselves,  never  to  each 
other,  that — that — oh,  his  letters  were  most  interesting  but 

— but They  wanted  a  woman 's  letter,  you  see,  and  he 

was  a  masculine  man.  He  gave  them  neatly  written  facts 
about  scenery  and  the  heights  of  cliffs,  and  they  wanted 
him,  himself,  his  thoughts — talking  letters.  And  though 
they  rejoiced  to  each  other  that  he  should  be  enjoying  him- 
self so  much,  they  wanted  to  be  missed.  They  wanted  an 
inquiry  or  two. 

Justin,  opening  his  eyes  at  them,  would  have  pointed 
out  with  perfect  justice,  that  they  told  him  all  about  them- 
selves when  they  wrote  in  their  turn.  What  was  the  use 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  175 

of  saying  ' '  How  are  you  ? ' '  when  he  knew  how  they  were  ? 
Besides  he  did  not  pretend  to  be  a  letter-writer.  He  wrote 
whenever  there  was  anything  to  tell  them.  That  day  when 
he  and  Bellew  had  got  the  photograph  of  the  gannet's  nest, 
and  the  rope  had  slipped,  and  he  had  nearly  gone  whacking 
into  the  sea  three  hundred  feet  below — why,  he  had  written 
at  once.  That  had  been  a  near  shave  if  they  liked!  Yes, 
he  was  having  the  time  of  his  life.  He  wished  it  were  not 
so  nearly  over.  Only  another  fortnight.  Bellew  had  to 
be  in  town  again  in  June. 

After  that  epistle,  and  the  extremely  vivid  nightmare 
that  followed  it,  in  which  Justin  dangled  like  a  spider  at 
the  end  of  a  rope  that  Laura  could  not  hold  because  she 
had  got  eggs  in  one  hand  and  Bellew,  looking  exactly  like 
Oliver  Seton,  was  cutting  off  the  other  with  a  palette  knife, 
it  was  not  surprising  that  she  should  have  a  pang  when, 
coming  up  to  lunch  at  the  Priory,  a  perturbed  maid  met 
her  with — 

"A  telegram,  Miss  Laura,  and  the  boy  wanting  an 
answer.  The  mistress  is  down  the  village." 

"It's  from  Mr.  Justin,  I  expect.  I'd  better  open  it," 
said  Laura. 

She  read  and  re-read  it  with  a  puzzled  face,  and  the 
maid  watched  her.  Telegrams  were  rare  in  Brackenhurst. 

"Where  has  Mrs.  Cloud  gone,  did  you  say?"  she  asked 
hurriedly.  "No,  there's  no  answer.  I  wonder  if  I'd  bet- 
ter try  and  find  her?"  She  was  speaking  half  to  herself 
and  half  to  the  maid.  "What's  the  time?  It's  nearly 
lunch-time,  isn't  it?  No — no,  it  can  wait."  And  then,  as 
the  maid,  an  old  and  trusted  one,  was  leaving  the  room, 
"Mary,  don't — don't  tell  Mrs.  Cloud.  I  mean,  I'll  give 
her  this.  I'll  tell  her  I  opened  it." 

Left  to  herself  she  stood  nervously  fingering  the  paper 
form,  her  eyes  on  the  clock.  She  wished  Justin  were  at 
home.  She  wished  it  were  in  Justin's  safe  hands.  How 
did  one  break  things  to  people?..  .  .  It  would  be  such  an 
awful  shock.  .  Poor  Mrs.  Cloud !  .  .  She  looked  out  of 


176  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

the  window.  No  sign  as  yet,  on  the  long  drive,  of  the  pony 
cart  and  poor  Mrs.  Cloud! 

She  turned  back  into  the  room  and,  struck  by  a  sudden 
idea,  knelt  down  and  pulled  at  the  pile  of  volumes  whose 
place,  since  time  was,  had  been  under  the  what-not  in  the 
corner  by  the  door.  Out  they  came  dustily,  Bible,  Nursery 
Rhyme-book,  Hymns  Ancient  and  Modern  and,  delight  of 
her  childhood,  the  photograph  album  with  the  plush  cor- 
ners and  the  clasps.  She  opened  it  and  turned  the  pages 
till  she  found  the  picture  that  she  sought. 

Such  a  bright  face!  .  .  .  But  for  the  chin,  the  weak 
chin,  it  might  have  been  Justin.  .  .  .  The  lips  too,  were 
fuller,  but  how  like  Justin!  .  .  .  Poor  boy — poor  man — 
and,  oh,  poor  Mrs.  Cloud!  .  .  . 

She  put  away  the  book  again  and  as  she  did  so  heard 
the  sound  of  wheels  and  Mrs.  Cloud's  voice  at  the  threshold. 

"In  the  morning-room?  Thanks,  Mary."  And  then, 
in  apology,  "My  dear,  I'm  afraid  I've  kept  you  waiting." 

Laura  spoke  breathlessly,  in  a  sudden  panic — 

' '  Mrs.  Cloud — the  boy  wanted  an  answer.  I  had  to  open 
it.  There's  been  a  telegram," 

"Justin?"  cried  Mrs.  Cloud  instantly. 

r<No.     No." 

Then  Mrs.  Cloud  turned  white. 

"Not  John?" 

"Yes." 

Mrs.  Cloud  sat  down  as  if  she  had  suddenly  no  strength. 
But  her  voice  was  steady  as  she  said — "Give  me  the  tele- 
gram," and  her  hand  was  steady  as  she  took  it.  She  even 
said — "Thank  you,  my  dear."  She  was  awful  to  Laura 
in  that  moment.  Eager  young  sympathy  shrank  back  re- 
buked before  gentle  Mrs.  Cloud,  sitting  quietly  in  her 
chair.  She  dared  not  speak.  She  could  only  stand  and 
wait  till  the  silence  that  had  come  into  the  room  like  a 
spirit  should  have  passed.  Once  indeed — it  was  a  most 
piteous  sound — she  heard  a  little  faint  inarticulate  moan, 
and  turned  quickly;  but  Mrs.  Cloud's  face  was  like  a  stone 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  177 

face,  and  she  did  not  stir  under  Laura's  anxious  eyes. 
Yet  when  the  maid  knocked  at  last  and  entered  with  her, 
''Lunch  is  served,  ma'am,"  Laura  marvelled  to  see  her 
rouse  herself  and  speak — 

"Mary,  tell  Robert  I  want  the  carriage.  At  once.  And 
pack  me  a  bag,  please.  I  have  to  go  up  to  town  for  two  or 
three  nights. ' '  And  then  she  turned  to  Laura  with  even  a 
little  smile  for  her  obvious  distress.  "It's  all  right,  my 
dear.  Run  and  have  your  lunch." 

Laura  did  not  want  any  lunch.  Laura  knew  that  Mrs. 
Cloud  ought  not  to  go  up  to  town  unaccompanied,  and  man- 
aged, timidly,  to  say  so. 

But  Mrs.  Cloud,  scribbling  an  address  in  her  notebook, 
paid  no  heed  to  her  or  to  the  maid  who  ruled  her  in  her 
daily  life,  and  drove  away  from  their  bewilderment  at  last, 
looking  bowed  and  unfamiliar  and  very  old — a  little  old 
woman  carved  in  ivory. 

"She's  got  her  black  on.  She  hasn't  worn  that  cloak 
these  ten  years,"  said  the  maid.  And  then,  with  a  gasp — 
"Miss  Laura,  what  is  it?  I — I  been  with  her  twenty 
years. ' ' 

Laura  judged  it  wisest  to  tell  her. 

"It's  bad  news,  Mary.     Mr.  Justin's  brother " 

"Mr.  John?" 

"He  died  yesterday." 


CHAPTER  XXII 

WHEN  Justin,  a  fortnight  later,  heard  the  story  of  that 
afternoon,  he  was  very  angry  with  Laura.  Letting  his 
mother  go  alone !  In  that  state  of  trouble !  Why,  a  child 
might  have  known  better ! 

' '  She  wouldn  't  let  me,  Justin !  If  you  'd  seen  her !  One 
couldn't  move  her.  She  was  like  iron." 

"Mother!  Like  iron!"  Justin  was  angry  and  pitiful 
at  once.  "You  ought  to  have  insisted,"  he  said  shortly, 
and  his  tone  added,  "I  thought  I  could  have  trusted  you." 

She  was  miserable  at  his  displeasure,  although  she  did 
not  resent  it.  She  guessed  that  it  must  ease  him  to  vent 
in  any  way  his  regret  for  his  own  absence;  but  she  knew, 
too,  that  whatever  he  thought,  she  had  not  failed  Mrs. 
Cloud. 

"I  think You  know,  I've  thought,  Justin,"  she 

tried  to  explain,  "that  she — she  was  afraid  of  what  she 
might  find.  She  didn't  want  any  one  to  see — to  be  able  to 
think  badly  of  him.  I  believe  I'd  have  felt  that  way 
too." 

"All  the  same,  you  ought  to  have  gone."  But  he  spoke 
more  gently.  Laura  often  thought  of  things  that  had  not 
occurred  to  him.  Then  he  went  off  at  a  tangent: 
' '  Think  badly !  What  else  can  one  think  ?  Do  you  realize 
that  he  left  Mother,  without  a  line,  twenty  years — and 
living  all  the  time  within  a  railway  journey  of  her?  He's 
my  brother,  and  he's  dead — but  I  can't  forgive  him. 
Never  shall.  The  callousness!  It's — it's  inconceivable!" 

"Why  did  he  go — orginally?" 

' '  Some  row  with  my  father.  A  cheque.  A  beastly  busi- 
ness. He  bolted  to  America.  But  you'd  think — later  on 

178 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  179 

— when  he  came  back — when  things  had  blown  over — when 
he'd  found  his  feet " 

"Perhaps  he  couldn't.     Perhaps  he  was  ashamed." 

"Then  Coral  should  have  made  him.  Any  decent 
woman — but  what  can  you  expect?"  And  he  looked  with 
deep  disfavour  at  the  girl  in  showy  mourning  sitting  with 
Mrs.  Cloud  at  the  other  end  of  the  lawn. 

For  Mrs.  Cloud  had  not  returned  alone.  In  the  dingy 
room  to  which  they  had  carried  John  Cloud  when  his  un- 
steady feet  had  been  knocked  from  under  him  by  a  passing 
car,  she  had  found  a  young  woman  with  an  old  face,  and  a 
little  big-eyed  boy  at  sight  of  whom  she  caught  her  breath, 
not  knowing  for  the  moment  whether  it  were  John  or 
Justin  come  back  to  her  across  the  years.  But  his  name, 
the  mother  told  her,  between  sobs  and  businesslike  explana- 
tions of  how  she  had  found  the  address  and  what  she  had 
done  about  the  funeral,  was  Timothy.  She  herself — she 
poured  it  all  out  with  an  utter  frankness  that  touched  Mrs. 
Cloud — was  Coral,  Johnnie's  wife.  Married  five  years 
ago — Timothy  was  three — called  after  Johnnie's  father, 
Johnnie  said — and  things  had  just  begun  to  look  up — 
they  had  got  a  joint  engagement — oh,  yes,  on  the  stage 
for  years.  She  had  got  him  his  first  job — and  now — and 

now No,  he  had  never  stirred  after  they  brought  him 

in. 

So  Mrs.  Cloud,  when  she  had  seen  her  son  and  had  buried 
him,  gathered  together  all  that  he  had  left  her  and  went 
back  to  her  home.  It  was  a  nine-days-wonder  for  Bracken- 
hurst,  all  eyes  and  ears  and  enquiries. 

"Most  charitable  of  poor  Mrs.  Cloud,  most  Christian — 
but,  oh;  my  dear !  have  you  seen  the  young  woman  ?  Hand- 
some, of  course — she  would  be.  But  the  voice — the  clothes 
— the  style — (yes,  we  must  call  at  once)  unspeakable! 
Makes  one  so  sorry  for  dear  Mrs.  Cloud ! ' ' 

But  Coral,  who  perhaps  had  not  met  with  too  much 
kindness  in  her  life,  revealed  a  gratefully  truculent  capac- 
ity for  protecting  not  only  herself  but  the  mother-in-law 


180  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

who  was  good  to  her.  Mrs.  Cloud  had  to  smile  sometimes 
and  come  to  the  rescue  with  a  ' '  My  dear ! ' '  that,  though  it 
checked  her,  never  seemed  to  hurt  Coral 's  feelings.  Brack- 
enhurst,  retiring  in  confusion,  marvelled  how  well  the  two 
hit  it  off :  was  reduced  to  wondering  what  Mr.  Justin  Cloud 
—Mr.  Cloud  now,  I  suppose — would  have  to  say  to  it  all 
when  he  arrived. 

Mr.  Cloud,  as  you  have  heard,  had  a  good  deal  to  say, 
not  to  Brackenhurst  or  to  his  little  worn  mother,  but  to 
Laura.  Justin,  it  may  as  well  be  admitted  at  once,  justi- 
fied Brackenhurst 's  worst  hopes.  He  did  not  get  on  with 
his  sister-in-law. 

Now  of  all  Justin's  good  qualities  Laura  most  admired 
his  broad-minded  tolerance  of  every  sin  and  foible  of  hu- 
manity that  did  not  get  on  his  nerves.  To  listen  to  him 
afterwards,  when  Brackenhurst  had  been  to  tea  and  gossip, 
divided  her  between  intense  admiration  of  his  generosity 
and  a  guilty  sense  of  her  own  meaner  nature. 

Second  cups  would  be  filling,  as  a  rule,  and  cake  plates 
emptying,  and  the  Brackenhurst  that  had  been  invited 
would  be  discussing  in  detail  the  Brackenhurst  that  had 
not,  before  Justin  would  remember  that  it  was  tea-time 
and  make  his  entrance.  Laura  loved  his  entrances.  He 
would  pause  in  the  doorway  to  survey  the  room,  his  shy 
smile  comically  contradicted  by  his  air  (quite  unconscious, 
to  be  sure)  of  well  knowing  that  his  arrival  must  always 
be  an  event,  and,  largely  beaming,  would  await  attention. 
That  accorded,  he  would  move  forward  with  dignity  and 
deliberation — he  was  always  deliberate — and  so  achieve  a 
seat.  He  would  refuse  food  from  any  hand,  which  always 
embitters  a  woman;  because  he  had  come,  not  to  enjoy 
himself,  but  to  please  his  mother  and  help  her  with  her 
tea-party.  He  did  help  her,  too,  as  a  son  does  by  being  a 
a  son  and  good-looking  and  too  big  for  the  room,  but  on 
the  whole  he  was  perhaps  more  impressive  than  stimulating. 
Conversationally  he  needed  room  to  turn  in  and  when  the 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  181 

room  was  full  of  Brackenhurst,  petticoated  Bracken- 
hurst You  understand?  He  knew,  at  any  rate,  that 

his  mother  understood. 

But  he  was  quite  ready  to  listen.  He  would  sit  back  in 
his  arm-chair,  his  grave  attentive  gaze  fixed  on  each  visitor 
as  she  spoke,  not  speaking  himself,  but,  it  could  be  felt, 
giving  them  their  chance,  dispassionately  giving  them  their 
chance  to  live  up  to  his  standard. 

They  seldom  did.  But  they  talked,  because  he  made 
them  nervous,  faster  than  ever  and  a  little  more  shrilly 
and  foolishly  and  indiscreetly  than  they  would  otherwise 
have  done :  and  were  vexed  with  themselves  when  they  got 
home. 

And  Justin,  looking  more  than  ever  like  an  intelligent 
little  boy  at  a  wedding,  would  ponder  their  alarums  and 
excursions  as  he  made  up  for  his  tea  at  dinner-time,  and 
finally  break  out — 

' '  What 's  Mrs.  Gedge  got  her  knife  into  the  Mouldes  for  ? 
Quite  harmless,  aren't  they?" 

"Oh,  quite."  Mrs.  Cloud  would  hesitate.  "But,  of 

course Oh,  well,  you  know,  chapel  people — and  now 

Robin  Gedge  wants  to  marry  Annabel.  It 's  rather  hard  on 
the  vicarage. ' ' 

' '  Chapel !  We  're  not  living  in  the  'fifties !  What 's  that 
got  to  do  with  it?" 

"No,  of  course — but  it  isn't  only  that.  Annabel — I 
must  say  I  'm  disappointed  in  Annabel.  Oh — no  real  harm, 
but — frivolous,  you  know,  and  such  a  crowd  of  boys  about 
her.  A  girl  shouldn't  make  herself  conspicuous.  Mrs. 
Gedge  only  hinted  that  pale  blue  taffeta  was  not  suitable 
for  a  Mothers'  Meeting,  and  Annabel  was  quite  rude,  I 
believe. ' ' 

"And  a  jolly  good  thing  too!  What  has  it  got  to  do 
with  Mrs.  Gedge?  I  do  think  women  are  the  limit,  you 
know — not  you,  Mother,  of  course!  But  imagine  any  man 
— imagine  me  dictating  to  Laura  what  she's  to  wear  or  not 


182  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

to  wear!  And  'chapel  people'!  Isn't  it  petty?"  He 
turned  to  his  Echo,  who  always  stayed  to  dinner  on  party 
days. 

"I  thought  you  didn't  like  Annabel?"  Echo  failed  him 
for  once. 

"Like?  Never  see  the  girl.  Don't  want  to.  Can't 
stand  her.  It's  the  principle.  Chapel!!  It's  a  free 
country.  What  right  have  you  or  I,  or  Mrs.  Gedge  for 
that  matter,  to  dictate  to  Annabel  Moulde?  If  people  are 
to  set  up  their  personal  prejudices  as  a  standard  for  their 
neighbours D'you  see  what  I  mean?" 

Laura  quite  saw  what  he  meant ;  but  she  had  also  seen  the 
taffeta  frock.  She  could  not  help  sympathizing  with  Mrs. 
Gedge  and  saying  so.  Laura  was  always  finding  herself 
put  into  the  position  of  defending  some  one  to  whom  she 
was  indifferent :  it  was  depressing.  .  .  .  She  wished  she  had 
Justin's  ready  tolerance.  .  .  . 

She  was  so  sure  of  this  tolerance  of  his  that  she  was  the 
more  distressed  by  his  attitude  to  his  sister-in-law.  If 
Justin  didn't  like  her  there  must  be  someting  radically 
wrong  with  Coral,  though  she  herself  had  not  detected  it. 
She  couldn't  help,  guiltily,  being  fascinated  by  the  vulgar 
little  body.  She  liked  her  brisk  self-confidence,  her  free 
humour,  her  fund  of  anecdote.  She  even  liked  the  accent, 
elusive  yet  undeniable,  lingering  in  her  decisive  public 
voice.  It  suited  Coral.  But  it  made  Justin  shudder  be- 
hind his  coffee-cup  in  what  had  once  been  the  cloistral  and 
dedicate  silence  of  the  breakfast-room.  The  most  unfortu- 
nate part  of  the  whole  unfortunate  business  was  that  Coral 
liked  Justin,  liked  him  very  much,  and  said  so  repeatedly  to 
Laura,  to  Mrs.  Cloud,  and  to  Justin  himself,  particularly  to 
Justin  himself.  He  found  it  trying. 

She  called  him  'dear'  and  took  him  for  walks,  and  asked 
him  to  fasten  her  bracelets  for  her.  She  used  strong  scent. 
She  got  at  his  newspaper  before  he  came  down  and  told  him 
all  the  news  before  he  had  time  to  read  it  for  himself.  He 
was  politely  conversational  for  the  two  first  mornings,  but 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  183 

by  the  third  he  was  reduced  to  the  acquiescive  monosyllable 
which  always  meant,  always  had  meant,  as  Mrs.  Cloud  or 
Laura  could  have  told  the  woman,  that  he  did  not  wish  to 
be  importuned.  But  Coral  greeted  the  indication  with  a 
crow  of  laughter  and  told  him  that  he  did  her  good.  He 
reminded  her  so  of  his  brother.  "Never  saw  such  a  like- 
ness. It  might  be  Johnnie  himself — just  like  Johnnie 
after  a  night  out.  Grunts  was  all  you  could  ever  get  out  of 
Johnnie  then — poor  Johnnie ! ' '  And  so,  with  the  easy  emo- 
tion of  the  profession,  mopped  her  eyes  with  an  imitation 
Brussels  lace  handkerchief  in  memory  of  Johnnie. 

Justin  looked  round  him  with  an  almost  passionate  long- 
ing for  Laura.  But  Laura,  of  course,  was  never  at  the 
Priory  for  breakfast. 

Gentle  Mrs.  Cloud  was  unaccountably  indifferent  to 
Coral's  glaring  misdemeanours.  Mrs.  Cloud,  with  her 
grandson  on  her  knee,  could  forgive  Coral  her  clothes  and 
her  manners,  and — which  was  more — her  matrimonial  au- 
dacity itself:  could  listen  with  a  kind  of  sorrowful  content 
to  the  semi-cockney  voice  telling  stories,  the  suitable  stories 
— Coral  was  no  fool — of  poor  Johnnie.  Coral  had  been 
good  to  Johnnie  and  it  had  not  been  easy  to  be  good  to 
Johnnie:  that  appeared  more  clearly  than  Coral,  so  care- 
fully no  fool,  could  dream,  or  than  Justin  and  Laura 
realized;  though  they,  too,  were  alert,  intent  on  shielding 
Mrs.  Cloud  from  crudities.  But  Mrs.  Cloud  listened,  and 
learned  all  that  she  was  not  meant  to  know,  and  was  kind 
to  Coral,  and  with  that  strange  reticence  of  hers  never  said 
aloud:  "But  if  he  had  written,  if  he  had  only  written, 
to  his  own  mother ! ' '  but  instead,  with  her  soft  smile — 

' '  I  am  glad  he  had  you,  my  dear. ' ' 

"If  I'd  known "  began  Coral  once,  and  stopped  her- 
self. She  intended  saying  that  if  she  had  known  what  a 
Mrs.  Cloud  could  be  she  would  have  sent  her  husband  to 
his  home  long  ago.  But  she  realized  that  even  Mrs.  Cloud 
would  not  bear  the  suggestion  of  her  son  returning  to  her 
by  another  woman's  good  leave.  And  she  had  fallen  in 


184.  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

love,  as  every  one  fell  in  love,  with  quiet  Mrs.   Cloud. 

But  behold  Coral  now,  the  daughter-in-law,  the  wife 
picked  up  in  the  far  country,  installed  at  Brackenhurst  and 
on  her  best  behaviour ;  but  dying  for  some  one  to  talk  to ! 

Of  course  there  was  Laura.  There  was  always  Laura. 
Justin  interposed  Laura  between  himself  and  his  sister- 
in-law,  much  as  you  hold  an  umbrella  slant-wise  between 
you  and  the  wind. 

Coral  did  not  object.  Laura  interested  her.  Coral,  who 
did  not  know  the  meaning  of  the  word  reserve,  except  in 
the  professional  sense  of  keeping  your  salary  to  yourself, 
conquered  Laura's  hesitancies  and  reticencies  by  ignoring 
them.  She  inveigled  her  into  bedroom  conclaves  and  long 
walks  and  talks:  and  Laura,  intrigued,  half  hostile,  found 
herself  committed  to  intimacy,  and  found  it  pleasant. 
She  had  no  women  friends.  Annabel  and  the  vicar's 
daughters  she  did  not  like,  and  the  Cloud  cousins,  Rhoda 
and  Lucy,  had  but  just  come  home  from  school.  Coral 
could  not  be  called  a  kindred  spirit,  but  she  was  shrewd 
and  sociable :  beneath  her  flagrancies  Laura  learned  to  like 
and  respect  her,  and  to  think  that  in  a  month  or  two,  when 

they  got  to  know  each  other  better But  Coral  cut 

short  the  rest.  Coral,  by  the  end  of  the  week,  had  laid  all 
before  her  as  far  as  her  own  private  affairs  and  love  affairs 
were  concerned  and  was  taking  it  for  granted  that  Laura 
would  respond. 

And  Laura,  against  her  will  and  her  dignity  and  her 
acute  consciousness  of  what  Justin  would  say  if  he  knew, 
did  respond.  She  did  not  know  how  it  happened ;  but  she 
found  herself  talking  to  Coral,  talking  about  everything 
under  the  sun — and  Justin.  She  had  never  discussed 
Justin  with  any  one  in  all  her  life.  It  was  a  curious  sen- 
sation, sacrilegious  but  enjoyable.  She  did  not  realize  that 
it  was  Coral's  doing.  But  Coral  had  not  been  a  week  at 
Brackenhurst  before  she  decided  that  Laura  was  in  love 
with  Justin  and  needed  a  little  help.  A  born  matchmaker, 
she  had  resolved  to  give  it. 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  185 

"You  never  thought  of  taking  on  my  brother-in-law, 
I  suppose?"  she  said  one  day  to  Laura.  And  then, 
impressively — "I  believe  you  could  get  him  if  you 
tried." 

Laura  looked  puzzled. 

"What  do  you  mean,  Coral — get  him?" 

"Marry  him." 

' '  But  of  course.    We  're  engaged. ' ' 

"Engaged?"  For  once  Coral  had  no  words.  Laura 
laughed. 

"Didn't  you  know?  I  thought  you  did.  I  suppose  we 
took  it  for  granted  you  knew.  One  does,  somehow. ' ' 

"But  you  can't  be  engaged."  Coral  was  quite  an- 
noyed. 

"What  d'you  mean — can't?"  said  Laura  sharply.  But 
as  Coral  hesitated,  she  added — ' '  Oh,  you  mean  I  'm  not  good 
enough  for  him."  She  flushed.  "I  know  that.  You 
needn't  rub  it  in." 

Coral  was  genuinely  shocked. 

"Not  good  enough?  What  utter  rot!  As  if  I  ever 
dreamed  of  such  a  thing!  As  if  a  woman  weren't  always 
too  good  for  a  man.  It's  Justin  who's  lucky,  I  should 
say!" 

Laura  put  aside  the  grossness  of  that  insincerity  with  a 
polite  smile. 

"What  did  you  mean  then,  that  we  couldn't  be  en- 
gaged?" 

"Only  that  you  don't  behave  as  if  you  were.  When  I 
think  of  me  and  Johnnie,  let  alone  my  best  boys — goodness 
me!" 

Laura  thought  that  she  ought  to  be  offended;  but  she 
could  not  be.  Coral's  views  were  too  interesting  and  she 
was  too  obviously  unconscious  that  her  interest  could  be 
unwelcome. 

"Well,  we  are,  anyway " 

Coral  enveloped  her  in  an  embrace.  She  looked  genu- 
inely delighted. 


186  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

"Good  business,  dearie!  But  I  say,  I  must  chaff  Justin 
for  not  telling  me ! ' ' 

"Oh  Coral,  don't!  You'll  make  him  squirm.  Haven't 
you  noticed  how  he  hates — fuss?"  she  ended  delicately, 
afraid  of  offending  Coral.  But  Coral  did  not  seem  dis- 
turbed. 

"Yes.  Aren't  men  quaint?  I  had  a  lot  of  trouble  be- 
fore I  cured  Johnnie.  Justin  does  remind  me  so  of  John- 
nie sometimes.  That  type  needs  a  heap  of  managing. 
When  I  marry  again " 

"Again?" 

Coral  bridled,  up  in  arms  in  an  instant. 

"How  old  d'you  think  I  am  then?     Sixty?" 

"Oh,  no!  oh,  no!"  Laura,  perplexed,  tried  to  smooth 
down  the  angry  little  woman.  But  Coral,  touched  on  a 
tender  spot,  was  not  to  be  pacified. 

"Fifty?  Forty?  I  tell  you— I'll  tell  you— I'm  thirty. 
That's  what  I  am.  Not  a  day  more.  And  Tim  was  acci- 
dental. Quite.  If  I  'd  had  my  way Of  course  a  child 

takes  it  out  of  you — and  touring  on  the  top!  I  played 
Aladdin  at  the  time  I  was  nursing  him.  It  wasn't  as  easy 
as  you'd  think  either.  My  word,  how  that  kid  used  to 
howl!  My  dressing-room  was  star,  you  see — right  off  the 
stage.  We  used  to  have  to  arrange  with  the  conductor  for 
incidental  music  whenever  he  woke  up.  Can't  trust  land- 
ladies— will  give  'em  gin  when  your  back's  turned.  Well, 
as  I  say — I  may  be  thirty  and  there's  Tim  and  the  mourn- 
ing; but  made-up  I  don't  look  a  day  over  twenty,  I  give 
you  may  word.  Why  shouldn't  I  get  married  again?" 

Laura  fidgeted,  and  Coral  reddened  anew.  She  had  a 
terrible  trick  of  accusing  you  of  thinking  that  which,  as  a 
matter  of  inconvenient  fact,  you  had  been  thinking. 

"If  you  think  I  wasn't  fond  of  poor  old  John — well, 
you're  wrong.  But  he's  dead  and  I'm  alive.  And  once 
you've  had  a  husband,  you  know " 

Laura  obviously  didn't. 

"Well — mind,   I'm  not  saying  it's  only  habit — but  a 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  187 

man's  like  a  fur  coat.  Not  absolutely  necessary,  but  once 
you've  had  one  you  can't  get  on  without.  You  feel  lost. 
You  want  some  one  to  look  after.  I'd  never  go  wrong, 
you  know.  I'm  not  that  sort.  A  girl  who  can't  control 
herself  makes  me  sick.  I've  seen  too  much  of  it.  And 
they  call  it  love!  But  give  me  a  husband!  Not  that  I'd 
live  on  a  man  even  if  he  were  my  husband.  I  own  myself, 
you  know.  I  pay  my  way.  Why — I've  earned  my  keep 
ever  since  I  was  twelve.  Up  to  six-ten  a  week  I've  been, 
and  down  to  eighteen  bob  and  provide  your  shoes  and 
gloves.  But  I've  always  kept  myself — and  John  too  some- 
times ;  though  he  hated  it,  poor  Johnnie.  But  there  it  was, 
you  see.  I  could  play  anything  from  Little  Eva  to  The 
Worst  Woman  in  London.  But,  John,  he  wasn't  much  good. 
He  could  act  straight  parts  all  right,  and  of  course  I  always 
got  him  cast  for  earls  when  I  knew  the  management ;  but  he 
wasn't  much  use  for  anything  else.  Too  much  the  gentle- 
man, you  know.  And  a  joint  engagement — it's  cheaper 
one  way — living  together;  but  they  beat  you  down.  Still, 
it's  better  than  living  alone.  It's  hell,  living  alone " 

That  was  always  the  burden  of  the  conversations  with 
which  she  beguiled  their  long  hours  together.  For  Mrs. 
Cloud  was  pathetically  absorbed  in  Timothy,  and  Justin 
had  grown  adroit  in  calculating  and  evading  his  sister-in- 
law's  whereabouts.  Laura,  as  Mrs.  Cloud  told  Aunt  Adela 
in  an  apologetic  call,  was  invaluable.  She  got  on  so  well 
with  Coral.  Indeed,  as  she  said  one  day  to  her  son,  she 
was  doing  Coral  good.  Hadn't  Justin  noticed  how  much 
quieter  poor  dear  Coral  had  grown  in  manner  ? 

But  neither  Mrs.  Cloud  nor  Justin  noticed  how  much 
good  Coral  was  doing  Laura.  For  Laura,  doing  her  duty 
with  wide  eyes  and  ears  and  mouth,  drank  in  knowledge 
that  had  never  before  come  her  away:  was  introduced  to 
facts — facts  as  crude  and  obvious  as  bread-and-cheese — 
and  that,  often  enough,  in  a  fashion  that  would  have  ap- 
palled Aunt  Adela  and  would  have  been  incomprehensible 
to  Mrs.  Cloud. 


188  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

For  Coral,  inevitably,  sprinkled  her  conversation  with 
tales  of  the  trade,  occasionally  funny,  invariably  coarse — 
tales  so  complicatedly  Rabelaisian  that  Laura,  that  seeker 
after  knowledge,  would  wrinkle  her  brows  and  ask  ques- 
tions, and  Coral  would  double  up  with  laughter  and  some- 
times explain.  But  the  explanations  were  even  more 
extraordinary  than  the  stories.  Now  and  then  she  carried 
a  perplexity  to  Justin.  He,  in  his  sensible  fashion,  al- 
ways explained  the  point  that  would  have  horrified  Aunt 
Adela,  and,  though  he  laughed,  agreed  with  her  that  it  was 
not  really  funny.  Laura  was  satisfied.  She  liked  Justin. 
She  knew  where  she  was  with  Justin.  He  never  left  his 
sentences  unfinished.  She  was  superior  one  day  when 
Coral  began,  as  usual,  to  tease  her. 

"Oh,  I  understand  that  now.     I  asked  Justin." 

"You  didn't!  You  haven't?  Really,  Laura!"  For 
once  Coral  was  shocked.  ' '  I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing ! 

Haven't  you  any  sense  of  decency?     To  ask  a  man ! 

I  wonder  you're  not  ashamed."    And  then,  with  a  giggle, 
"What  did  he  say?" 

"Oh,  he  just  told  me,"  said  Laura,  puzzled  at  Coral's 
heat. 

"Didn't  you   fall   through   the   floor?    My   dear,   you 

mustn't!     I  can't  tell  you  things  if  you Oh,  really, 

Laura,   you're   the   limit!"     Coral   was   divided   between 
laughter  and  real  annoyance. 

"But  I  always  ask  Justin  everything,"  Laura  remon- 
strated. "Why  shouldn't  I?  Of  course  I  shouldn't 
dream  of  telling  Aunt  Adela.  But  Justin ! ' ' 

And  Coral,  that  typical  stage  mixture  of  frankness  and 
prudery,  was  forced  to  realize  that  she  was  entirely  and 
unsuspiciously  sincere. 

"D'you  tell  him  anything?"  she  gasped. 

"Well,  who  else  can  I  ask?  He  was  at  Oxford,  you 
know.  He  knows  an  awful  lot." 

"He  must  be  a  decent  sort!  My  word!"  Coral  was 
impressed  for  once. 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  189 

"He's  Justin,"  said  Laura  placidly. 

And  Coral,  the  married  woman,  the  woman  of  her  world, 
admitted  to  herself,  with  a  laugh  and  a  touch  of  envy,  that 
there  were  things  in  Brackenhurst  undreamed  of  in  her 
philosophy,  and  that  their  names  were  Laura  Valentine  and 
Henry  Justin  Cloud.  Also,  with  admirable  wisdom,  that 
she  had  much  better  leave  them  to  work  out  their  own  sal- 
vation in  their  own  amazing  way. 

But  you  don 't  suppose  that  she  did  ?  Surely  the  resolve 
was  enough  to  stamp  her  an  unusual  woman.  You  cannot 
expect  her  to  abide  by  it. 

Such  a  fascinating  pie  as  she  had  found,  too,  at  Bracken- 
hurst  and  so  badly  in  need  of  a  stir :  and  she  born  with  the 
very  finger  for  it,  the  crooked,  enquiring,  blunt-tipped 
finger  of  the  artist  in  such  cookery!  And  Brackenhurst, 
save  for  this  godsend  of  a  pie,  was  such  a  dull  place  to  be 
resting  in,  though  she  owed  Johnnie's  folk  the  visit  and  it 
was  doing  Timothy  good — that,  with  an  ache  at  her  heart, 
she  realized.  She  asked  herself  sometimes  if  she  should 
ever  dare  take  Timothy  from  this,  so  obviously  his  own 
place.  His  cheeks  were  so  rosy,  and  his  nurse  so  com- 
petent, and  his  poor  little  manners  so  much  improved  that 
she  felt  at  times  half  afraid  of  him — or  herself.  She  could 
not  see  this  new  Timothy  with  her  any  more  in  lodgings 
and  dressing-rooms  and  trains.  And  yet,  how  could  she 
stay  on  indefinitely  at  the  Priory?  She  who  was  home- 
sick already  for  her  own  familiar  world  of  bustle  and 
bright  lights,  and  scent,  and  dirt,  and  chocolate,  and  men, 
and  overwork.  Brackenhurst  for  a  week-end  was  as  good 
as  a  picture  palace;  but  she  had  been  there  a  month  now 
and  there  was  nothing  in  the  world  to  do  but  talk  to 
Laura. 

She  thanked  her  stars  for  Laura.  She  admired  Laura, 
would  have  given  her  an  introduction  to  a  manager  with 
hearty  goodwill.  It  amused  her  to  shock  Laura,  and  yet 
Laura's  wondering  eyes  could  hurt  her.  She  had  a  queer 
tenderness  for  her,  as  for  a  child :  and  yet  she  did  not  spare 


190  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

her.  She  told  herself  that  it  did  Laura  good  to  jump. 
And  the  relief  of  reckless  speech  was  great. 

"What  a  queer  mark!"  said  Laura  to  her  one  day. 
Coral  had  slipped  off  her  blouse  and  was  trying  on  a  half- 
made  bodice.  Laura,  hovering  round  her  with  pins  and 
scissors,  had  noticed  a  white  three-cornered  scar  on  Coral's 
bare  shoulder. 

"That?"  Coral  laughed.  "Johnnie  did  that.  Poor 
Johnnie!  How  upset  he  was  next  day!" 

"How  did  it  happen?"  said  Laura.  "It's  quite  a  bad 
mark.  Keep  still." 

"Chair-leg,"  said  Coral,  without  emotion. 

"What?"  Laura's  pins  dropped  from  her  hands.  She 
stared  at  Coral  with  wide,  incredulous  eyes. 

Coral  looked  at  her  with  curious,  amused  detachment. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,"  she  drawled,  "that  you  didn't 
know  what  was  wrong  with  Johnnie  ? ' ' 

"Oh,  Coral!"  Laura's  great  eyes  were  eloquent.  But 
Coral  shrugged  off  the  idea  of  sympathy.  She  was  quite 
genuinely  matter-of-fact. 

"My  dear,  he  didn't  mean  it.  He  couldn't  help  it. 
They're  not  themselves,  you  know.  They  don't  know  what 
they're  doing.  Johnnie  was  like  a  mad  bull  sometimes — 
poor  Johnnie!" 

' '  But — but — he  was  a  gentleman ! ' '  cried  Laura,  in  spite 
of  herself. 

"A  gentleman's  just  a  man  when  he's  drunk,"  said  Coral 
shrewdly,  ' '  same  as  most  other  times — swears  the  same  and 
smells  the  same." 

"But  a  gentleman  doesn't  get  drunk,"  protested  Laura. 
"At  least- " 

Coral  laughed. 

"Well,  I'm  perfectly  certain  Justin  never  has." 

' '  No,  he  looks  as  if  he  hadn  't.  I  'd  think  more  of  him  if 
he  had.  He  looks  as  if  he  'd  never  been  drunk  in  his  life — 
or  kissed  either.  Except  you."  She  laughed  again. 
"And  that  doesn't  count.  You  don't  count,  you  know." 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  191 

She  glanced  sideways  at  Laura  as  she  slipped  off  the  bodice 
and  turned  to  her  own  work  again. 

In  silence  Laura  cut  and  threaded  and  knotted  a  length 
of  cotton.  They  were  sitting  at  their  needlework.  Coral, 
in  search  of  amusement,  no  reader,  but  as  expert  a  needle- 
woman as  ever  wasted  exquisite  stitchery  on  bad  material, 
had  insisted  on  inspecting  Laura's  bottom  drawer,  had  cried 
out  against  the  serviceable  longcloths  and  calico  buttons, 
and  had  at  last,  with  peremptory  good  nature,  declared  that 
she  would  attend  to  Laura's  trousseau  herself.  Laura  must 
send  to  some  pet  shop  of  Coral's  for  patterns,  "the  best 
value  in  London,  dirt  cheap,  you  couldn't  tell  their  lace 
from  real!"  And  while  Laura  thanked  her,  but  was 
firm  against  Tubbin  and  Spinks  and  coloured  underclothes, 
Mrs.  Cloud  had  slipped  away  in  her  mouse-like  fashion 
(indeed,  they  had  not  known  that  she  was  with  them  or 
listening)  and  had  come  back  again  from  a  rummage  of 
her  stores  to  appease  them  with  a  roll  of  finest  lawn, 
smelling  of  orris-root,  and  little  bundles  of  lace  from  Italy. 
After  that  the  trousseau  increased  on  the  filmiest  of  lines 
and  apace.  Sometimes,  as  they  sat  working,  they  even 
talked  about  the  wedding-dress.  But  then  Coral  would 
talk  about  anything!  .  .  .  There  was  never  any  holding 
Coral.  ...  A  baffling  woman,  Coral.  .  .  .  She  would  chat- 
ter strange  things  till  Laura  was  restless  and  excited,  and 
then,  with  a  word,  a  stray  phrase,  she  would  be  a  cold 
wind,  bursting  all  the  many-coloured  bubbles  she  had 
blown  for  Laura,  permitting  herself  some  such  kindly  in- 
solence as  now,  when  she  said — 

"You!     But  you  don't  count,  you  know!" 

And,  as  I  tell  you,  it  took  Laura  those  long  minutes  to 
adjust  her  needle  and  thread  before  she  answered — 

"It's  you  who  don't  understand.  Justin  and  I  aren't 
like  that.  We — we  don't  care  about  that  sort  of  thing. 
It's  silly!" 

Coral  surveyed  her,  made  up  her  mind  about  her  at  last. 

"Poor  old  Laura!"  she  said  deliberately. 


192  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

Laura  flushed  angrily.  She  stared  at  Coral,  chin  lifted, 
with  half-shut,  indifferent  eyes — the  look  that  was  her 
shield  in  danger. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Laura  icily. 

' '  Don 't  you  ? ' '  Coral  bent  placidly  over  her  embroidery 
frame.  In  the  pause  her  needle  made  tiny,  explosive 
sounds  as  it  popped  in  and  out  of  the  taut  silk.  She  looked 
up  at  last  to  find  that  Laura  had  risen,  was  standing  over 
her.  Behind  her  fierceness  she  had  a  curious  air  of  alarm. 

"Well?"  said  Coral,  with  lazy  amusement. 

And  then  Laura's  haughtiness  melted  rather  pitifully 
into  childish,  bewildered  anger. 

"You  talk  so!  I  hate  the  way  you  talk.  About  us. 

You  hint You're  always  hinting!  What  is  it  you 

mean?  Do  you  think ?  Do  you  imagine ?"  She 

drew  a  difficult  breath.  "Oh,  I  think  you're  a  perfect 
beast!"  cried  Laura  fiercely. 

She  flamed  out  of  the  room :  and,  for  the  rest  of  the  day, 
would  not  look  at  her,  would  not  speak  to  her. 

And  Coral,  who  liked  her,  watched  her  with  those  two 
shrewd,  bright  blue  eyes  of  hers  and  laughed  a  little  and 
shook  her  head  and  said  to  herself  once  again — 

"Poor  old  Laura!" 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

"You  don't  count." 

Coral's  words,  her  look,  her  laughter — above  all,  her 
kindly,  contemptuous  laughter — haunted  Laura. 

Since  the  day  of  her  engagement  she  had  been  aware, 
underneath  her  happiness,  of  certain  inadequacies,  fallings 
short  in  herself  or — was  it  possible? — in  Justin.  Prepos- 
terous !  She  heaped  scorn  upon  the  notion  till  it  was  cov- 
ered up  again,  and  yet  she  knew  it  was  there,  huddled 
away  in  a  corner  of  her  mind,  ready  at  a  word  to  shake 
itself  free  of  its  trappings,  to  confront  her,  a  naked  living 
fact.  "You  don't  count."  Coral's  three  words  were 
more  than  enough  to  waken  it.  She  had  failed  Justin  in 
some  way?  Was  that  what  Coral  meant?  Coral,  who 
knew  such  a  lot  about  men.  Coral,  who  seemed  to  think 
that  Justin  was  no  more  than  anybody  else,  thought  it 
ought  to  be  easy  to  make  him  like  one  better  than  birds' 
eggs  and  books  and  things.  She  remembered  how  Coral 
had  turned  on  her  one  day,  laughing  and  angry,  saying: 
"You  little  fool,  why  the  devil  don't  you  flirt  with  him?" 

That  was  all  very  well,  of  course,  if  one  were  pretty 
enough  and  clever  enough,  a  splendid,  irresistible  sort  of 
person.  .  .  .  That  sort  of  thing  worked  in  books.  .  .  .  But 
Laura  would  like  any  one  to  tell  her  how  she  was  to  flirt 
with  Justin?  How  to  start  even?  ...  It  seemed  a  hope- 
less business.  .  .  .  Besides — besides — she  didn't  want  to 
.  .  .  she  would  just  feel  a  fool.  .  .  .  And  that  was  what 
Coral  meant,  she  supposed,  by  not  counting.  ...  Or  was 
it  ?  ...  When  Coral  laughed — oh,  Coral  got  on  her  nerves ! 
.  .  .  She  wished  Coral  had  never  come  to  Brackenhurst. 
.  .  .  Coral  and  life  were  so  mysterious.  .  .  .  She  thought 
that  being  grown-up  was  very  strange  and  difficult.  .  .  . 

193 


194.  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

One  day  as  she  helped  Justin  with  his  precise,  delightful 
task  of  gumming  labels  on  his  latest  finds,  she  broke  out 
suddenly,  guided  by  an  irresistible  impulse — 

"Justin,  I  do  count,  don't  I?" 

He  was  doing  things  with  a  strip  of  paper  and  a  paste 
brush. 

"Here,  hold  this  down,  will  you?  No,  not  there,  that's 
not  pasted  yet — where  it's  curling.  What  were  you  say- 
ing?" 

"You  wouldn't  say  I  didn't  count,  would  you?"  she 
revised  it.  "I  do  come  next  to  your  mother,  don't  I?" 
And  then,  quickly,  "What  is  it — scissors?" 

"No,  the  knife,  the  black  handle.  Yes,  of  course  you 
count.  What's  the  matter?  Why  not?"  And  then,  as 
the  subject  dawned  on  him — "My  dear  child,  as  if  one 
made  lists  of  that  sort  of  thing  and  marked  people  off!" 

She  laughed. 

"I  do.     Shall  I  tell  you  my  list?" 

He  did  not  answer.  That  was  his  way  of  rebuking  van- 
ity. 

She  turned  from  him,  disheartened.  So  silly  of  her  to 
expect  to  get  anything  out  of  Justin.  But  she  was  not  at 
the  door  before  he  called  to  her  pleasantly  enough — 

"I  say,  hold  this  again,  will  you,  please?  I'm  all 
gummy." 

She  came  back,  and  for  half  an  hour  sat  beside  him  in 
silence,  listening  to  his  breathing,  watching  his  intent  face, 
helping  him  when  she  could.  And  as  she  sat  thus,  all  he 
had  meant  to  her  since  her  childhood  came  overwhelmingly 
into  her  mind.  She  was  flooded  with  strange  thoughts. 

She  thought: 

It  must  be  true  that  I  don't  count.  .  .  .  There  must  be 
something  lacking  in  me  or  else  I  could  make  Justin  look 
up  and  want  to  talk  to  me.  ...  I'm  engaged  to  him.  .  .  . 
Why  can't  I  put  my  arms  round  his  neck  and  say  "You 
must  do  what  /  want  now  ? ' ' 

She  thought  again: 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  195 

It  is  queer  ...  I'm  so  near  to  Justin.  .  .  .  His  hand 
touches  mine  when  I  pass  him  things  .  .  .  and  yet  all  the 
time  we're  in  two  different  worlds.  .  .  .  He  doesn't  know 
that.  .  .  .  Sometimes  I  think  he  doesn  't  know  anything.  .  .  . 

She  thought: 

It  hurts  me  to  be  with  him,  and  it  hurts  me  not  to  be 
with  him  ...  it  hurts  me  more  every  day.  .  .  .  And  yet 
— this  pain — I  wouldn't  miss  it.  ...  It's  doing  things  to 
me  all  day  long.  ...  It's  making  me  grow.  ...  I  feel  so 
wise.  .  .  .  Justin  would  say  "conceit"  if  I  told  him,  but 
it  isn't  conceit.  ...  I  am  awfully  wise.  ...  I  know  Jus- 
tin all  through.  .  .  .  He 's  just  ordinary  to  Coral  and  every 
one.  He's  just  ordinary  to  himself.  .  .  .  But  I  see  right 
inside — what  God  sees.  It's  like  being  God  to  love  a  person 
so. 

And  then  this  poor,  triumphant,  heaven-scaling  humanity 
stumbled  and  lost  foothold  and  fell  back  again  to  Mother 
Earth.  ...  I  wish — she  thought  wistfully — I  wish  he  could 
want,  sometimes,  to  kiss  me.  .  .  . 

But  at  that  she  caught  her  breath  in  a  sort  of  horror  at 
herself.  What  had  come  to  her?  She  could  not  under- 
stand herself  any  more.  She  felt  helpless  and  despairing 
and  yet  filled  with  faint,  wicked  happiness.  She  looked 
across  at  Justin's  calm  profile  with  a  childish,  mad  impulse 
of  appeal.  If  only  he  had  time  to  help  her !  .  .  .  And  yet, 
of  course,  she  could  never  even  tell  him  that  she  wanted 
help.  .  .  .  These  thoughts  would  make  Justin  hate  her  if 
he  knew.  .  .  .  She  must  not,  must  never  think  a  thought 
she  could  not  own  to  Justin.  .  .  .  She  must  stamp  out  the 
incomprehensible  feelings  that,  in  spite  of  herself,  were 
surging  over  her  mind,  the  feelings  that  were  as  beautiful  as 
music  and  yet,  somehow,  were  wicked. 

All  the  panic-stricken  summer  day  she  struggled  like  a 
half-tamed  bird  to  free  her  child's  heart  from  the  thrilling 
touch,  the  tightening  grip  of  'wickedness.' 

She  stayed  late  at  the  Priory,  though  she  knew,  guiltily, 
that  Aunt  Adela  was  away  and  Gran 'papa  would  eat  a 


196  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

lonely  supper.  But  she  dreaded  the  solitary  walk  home 
and  the  quiet  evening  and  the  long  night  of  thoughts  that 
lay  before  her. 

She  went  off  at  last  with  unnecessary  last  words  to  Coral 
and  Mrs.  Cloud,  and  glanced  back,  as  she  went  down  the 
drive,  at  the  friendly  house  with  the  lamplight  streaming 
from  its  big  bay  windows  and  Justin's  shadow  on  the 
blind  of  his  den,  as  if  in  leaving  it  she  left  behind  her, 
safety. 

The  gate  clashed  at  her  heels. 

The  night  was  soft,  very  quiet,  neither  warm  nor  cold. 
There  was  no  star  in  the  sky  and  her  only  guide  between 
the  vague  hedges  was  the  dim  earth-shine  of  the  chalk 
road,  stretching  out  ahead  of  her  like  the  silvery  track  of 
a  snail.  She  pulled  her  cloak  about  her,  huddling  into 
herself.  Her  body  was  warm,  but  the  loneliness  of  the 
night  had  put  out  cold  fingers  and  touched  her  throat. 
She  could  hear  the  little  human  sounds  she  made,  of  breath 
and  movement,  rippling  out  and  being  smothered  in  that 
ocean  of  silence. 

Presently  she  descended  into  the  deeper  darkness  of  tree- 
thatched  Wisdom  Lane,  where  the  banks  were  steep  and  a 
huge  chestnut  put  a  period  to  the  run  of  the  brambles. 
It  was  half  circled  by  a  seat  that  was  unsightly  enough  in 
the  daytime,  littered  with  paper  and  orange-peel  and  the 
whirled  sif tings  of  the  road — a  wind's  dust-pan,  a  perch 
for  the  birds,  an  urchins'  parliament.  But  at  night  lovers 
sat  there. 

Laura,  who  had  so  often  passed  by  with  a  smile  or  a  shrug 
of  cool  wonder  at  the  ways  of  'poor  people,'  content  to 
court  in  public,  swerved  suddenly  off  the  path  and  into 
the  road,  slipping  by  the  dark  seat  like  a  shadow.  Yet 
she  had,  unwillingly,  a  glimpse  of  the  couple  that,  since 
she  could  remember,  always  seemed  the  same,  sitting  as 
they  always  sat,  clasped,  motionless,  the  woman's  head  on 
the  man's  breast,  the  faces  grey- white  like  the  road  beyond 
the  shadows. 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  197 

Laura,  in  that  glance,  half  recognized  their  own  maid, 
doubtfully,  as  a  goodwife  eyes  a  changeling.  She  knew — 
her  common  sense  told  her — that  at  ten  o  'clock  Ellen  would 
slip  through  a  back  door  and  appear  five  minutes  later, 
capped  and  decent  and  respectful,  with  a  tray  and  glasses 
in  her  hand,  and  no  inexplicable  glory  on  her  common 
face.  But  at  this  moment,  she,  Laura,  the  mistress,  was 
ignored :  was  not  even  seen.  She  knew  that  she  might  pass 
and  repass  a  dozen  times  and  they  would  not  stir.  She 
was  inconsiderable,  invisible,  impalpable.  She  did  not 
exist. 

She  went  her  way,  humbly,  filled  with  awe  and  wonder 
and  intolerable  envy.  "What  was  this  transmuting  force, 
this  holy  spirit  that  could  draw  a  magic  circle  about  a 
housemaid  and  a  groom  in  which  to  sit  out  their  hour  in  a 
public  way,  inviolate,  divine?  .  .  .  What  was  it?  ... 
What  did  it  mean?  .  .  .  What  did  it  all  mean?  .  .  .  And 
why  should  she,  Laura,  feel  herself  ignorant,  shut  out,  and 
desperately  lonely?  .  .  .  She  was  of  all  women  fortunate. 
.  .  .  She  was  alive.  .  .  .  She  was  engaged  to  Justin.  .  .  . 
But  this  new  thing — what  was  it?  ...  What  was  it  that 
he  and  she  had  not  yet  found — what  gift  of  God  that  (as 
she  saw  with  sudden  clearness)  they  could  in  no  wise  find, 
save  together?  .  .  .  Life  and  she  herself  and  Justin  had 
become,  since  the  morning,  mysterious  and  mutually  inex- 
plicable. .  .  .  Why  was  she  feeling  so  strangely  ?  .  .  .  Why 
had  she  to  hurry  past  those  enchanted  yokels  as  one  proved 
negligible,  incomplete,  a  half  creature?  .  .  .  Why  was  not 
Justin  with  her  that  she  might  carry  herself  as  one  justi- 
fied, oblivious  of  the  world  as  the  world  of  her  ?  .  .  . 

She  came  out  into  the  broad  road  again  and  again  the 
silence  of  the  wide  fields  surged  in  upon  her,  and  her  soul 
clung  to  her  terrified,  like  a  wrecked  sailor  clinging  to  a  spar. 

She  should  have  asked  Justin  to  come  with  her.  ...  If 
she  had  asked  he  would  have  come.  ...  It  was  only  that 
it  had  not  occurred  to  him.  .  .  .  The  stubbornness  that 
would  ask  nothing,  that  would  accept  nothing  of  him  that 


198  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

was  not  spontaneous,  was  receiving  its  just  reward.  .  .  . 

It  was  such  a  silence,  such  a  loneliness  of  soul — so  ach- 
ingly  intensified  by  her  consciousness  of  the  two  behind 
her  in  the  shadows,  that  she  felt  it  like  a  leaden  cope  press- 
ing her  down,  crushing  into  shapelessness  the  pitiful  re- 
sistance of  her  pride.  If  Justin  had  come  to  her  then,  she 
could  have  besieged  him  like  any  wanton  for  the  dole  of  a 
kind  look,  of  an  arm  about  her  shaken  body. 

She  had  come  to  a  standstill  in  the  middle  of  the  road 
because  she  could  not  bear  any  longer  the  sound  of  her  own 
feet  running  after  her:  and  so  waited,  impotently,  for  the 
passing  of  a  fellow  creature  or  her  own  mood.  And  pres- 
ently, mercifully,  the  face  of  the  night  changed  to  her. 
The  loneliness  faded  from  it  like  a  veil  withdrawn,  and 
with  it  the  sense  of  isolation  that  had  oppressed  her  faded 
too.  She  was  gradually  aware  of  the  universal  alive-ness 
of  the  still  world  about  her.  It  was  as  if  her  late,  be- 
wildered thoughts  had  evolved  some  ruthless  one  who  stood 
beside  her,  thrusting  a  torch  into  the  secrets  of  the  deep 
ditches  and  shuttered  cottages  and  mist-veiled  fields,  and, 
with  a  heavy  hand  upon  her  neck,  bowed  her  forward  to 
peer  at  what  the  light  revealed. 

And  she  saw — saw  the  arcades  and  the  galleries  of  the 
hedges  and  how  unbelievably  full  they  were  of  living, 
mated  things:  saw  the  warm  round  nests  and  in  each  a 
stir  of  bright  eyes  and  perking  crests:  saw  the  day-moths 
with  their  flattened  wings,  asleep  upon  blanched  black- 
berry leaves :  saw  the  snuggled  mice  in  the  straw  stacks  and 
hares  couched  in  the  standing  corn  and  the  friendly  horses 
drowsing  shoulder  to  crupper :  saw  tramps  sheltering  in  the 
flowery  chalk-pits  and  lovers  under  the  stars:  and  beneath 
thatched  roofs  men  lying,  pinned  down  by  the  sleep  that 
comes  of  earthy  labour,  and  women  kept  awake  by  life 
awake  in  their  bodies,  and  little  children  dreaming,  and  old 
folk  at  their  dying,  and  the  dead  reviving  eternally  in  the 
divine  womb  of  earth. 

She  was  held  by  her  youth  and  her  ignorance  as  in  a 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  199 

narrow  cell;  but  through  the  bars  of  her  imprisonment 
she  stretched  forth  hands  in  passionate  greeting  to  these 
her  kith  and  kin.  She  was  overwhelmed  by  a  sense  of  al- 
liance, of  sisterhood:  she  felt  herself  gathered  in,  em- 
braced, merged  in  the  endlessly  faceted  identity  of  the 
universe.  She  was  burningly  happy.  All  knowledge  sang 
in  her  ears:  all  secrets  lay  bare  and  beautiful  to  her  eyes. 
She  understood  all  things  and  forgot  them,  and  remem- 
bered them,  and  forgot  them  again,  with  the  carelessness 
of  illimitable  possession. 

Out  of  that  timeless  ecstasy  she  looked  down  upon  her 
life  lying  like  a  sloughed  snake-skin  at  her  feet:  surveyed 
the  length  of  it,  past,  present,  and  future,  with  infinite 

wise  amusement,  thinking Here  Laura  went  wrong. 

.  .  .  This — how  foolish!  she  did  not  do.  ...  And  then, 

with  a  quickening  and  personalization  of  interest She 

should  have  told  Justin — I  must  tell  Justin.  .  .  . 

But  at  that,  as  if  the  word  'Justin'  were  the  signal  for 
the  inevitable  revulsion,  she  felt  herself  contracting,  shud- 
dering away  again  from  the  universal  life,  crying  in  futile 
anger  and  despair:  "All  this— is  too  big — is  too  big  for 
me.  This  will  kill  me.  I  can't  hold  it.  I'm  not  God!" 
And  so,  with  the  roar  in  her  ears  of  huge  waters  rushing 
into  a  deep  and  narrow  channel,  was  back  in  her  body 
again,  with  but  one  word  of  all  the  infinite  wisdom  that 
had  been  hers  echoing  in  her  memory — the  one  word  'Jus- 
tin.' She  found  herself  repeating  it  over  and  over  again, 
unintelligently,  like  a  lost  child — "Justin.  Where's  Jus- 
tin? I  want  Justin." 

And  all  the  myriad  voices  of  the  life  she  had  shared 
merged  in  one  to  answer  her,  to  answer  with  laughter  that 
was  like  sunlight,  with  laughter  that  was  like  tears,  to  an- 
swer her  with  the  still  small  Voice  Itself — 

' '  Find  Justin  then.  Love  Justin  then.  Am  I  not  Justin 
also?" 

She  listened  and  was  comforted :  and  going  home,  went  to 
bed  and  slept. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

As  a  friend  and  as  a  needlewoman,  Coral  was  indefatigable. 
Laura's  trousseau  absorbed  her  and  she  ended,  with  the 
marked  approval  of  Mrs.  Cloud  and  Aunt  Adela,  not  only 
in  converting  the  roll  of  lawn  into  a  pile  of  delectable 
garments,  but  in  annexing  the  quarter's  dress-money  which 
Laura  had  intended  spending  on  a  garden  hat,  a  complete 
set  of  the  poems  of  Mr.  Alfred  Noyes,  and  a  birthday  pres- 
ent for  the  twins,  who,  installed  in  a  counting-house  and 
chambers,  and  very  much  men  about  town,  were  neverthe- 
less desperately  in  need,  Laura  dear,  (if  any  one  wants 
to  know,  you  know)  of  basket-chairs  and  summer  pants. 

Laura,  contemplating  the  silk  and  muslin  for  which 
Coral,  in  conclave  with  Mrs.  Cloud,  had  exchanged  that 
elastic  seven  pounds  ten,  did  not  know  whether  to  be  al- 
lured or  incensed. 

"It's  sweet  of  you,  of  course.  They're  delicious.  But 
such  waste,  Coral!  They'll  go  out  of  fashion.  I'm  not 
going  to  be  married  tomorrow ! ' ' 

Coral  rubbed  her  nose  in  that  meditative  way  of  hers 
that  was  disastrous  to  her  complexion. 

"How  long  have  you  been  engaged?" 

"Oh,  about  a  year." 

"A  year!     Why  on  earth  don't  you  get  married?" 

"It's  never  been  quite  convenient.  We  were  going  to 
last  spring,  but  then  the  chance  came  to  join  that  expedi- 
tion  " 

Coral  interrupted  her. 

"Laura,  tell  me  honestly — do  you  enjoy  fiddling  about 
over  birds'  eggs?" 

Laura  flushed. 

"Why,  I  know  as  much  about  them  as  Justin.    He  said. 

200 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  201 

so  the  other  day.  If  he  were  in  doubt  about  a  bird,  I 
believe  he'd  listen  to  me.  I'm  longer-sighted,  you  know. 
He  would,  honestly,  if  he  hadn't  made  up  his  mind." 

"Is  he  ever  wrong?"     Coral's  voice  was  colourless. 

"I've  never  known  him  wrong,"  said  Laura  in  all  grav- 
ity. "Only,  of  course,  he  sometimes  changes  his  mind. 
And  that's  what  always  annoys  me  so,  you  know,  that  I 
never  really  know  why  he  does.  But  I  suppose  when  one 's 
married ? ' ' 

"No,"  said  Coral  thoughtfully.  "No.  Oh,  of  course, 
after  a  time  you'll  get  to  know  what  they'll  do  always,  but 
you  never  really  know  why  they  do  it. ' ' 

"That's  what  makes  it  difficult,"  Laura  sighed. 

"How— difficult?" 

"Well,  to  keep  in  step,  I  mean.  You  see,  he'll  think 
Carson  a  sort  of  Cromwell  for  months,  and  I  get  hardened 
to  the  Daily  Mail  and  read  up  William  and  Mary  so  as  to 
back  him  against  Gran 'papa,  and  then,  all  of  a  sudden — 
well,  he's  Home  Rule  at  present.  It  makes  it  a  little  diffi- 
cult for  me." 

Coral  stared,  with  all  the  indifference  of  her  class  and 
her  type  to  that  particular  amusement  of  its  men-folk. 

"Oh,  politics!  I  shouldn't  worry  about  politics.  As  if 
one  had  time  for  an  opinion  about  politics!" 

Laura,  with  other  blood  in  her  veins,  stared  in  her  turn. 

"But  naturally  I've  an  opinion!  I'm  not  a  fool! 
Only — "  she  began  to  laugh — "I  don't  let  on." 

' '  Why  ? ' '    But  Coral  looked  as  if  she  knew. 

"Well,  you  see,"  Laura  warmed  to  her  engrossing  sub- 
ject, "he  says  he  thinks  that  every  one  ought  to  stick  to 
their  own  ideas  and  be  independent.  But  he  always  thinks 
(and  you  know,  Gran 'papa's  just  the  same)  that  it's  amaz- 
ing that  the  people  who  disagree  with  him  can  be  so  in- 
tolerant and  impervious  to  reason.  So  I  always  begin  by 
disagreeing  and  let  him  argue  it  out.  And  then  I  see  his 
point  and  he  thinks  how  sensible  I  am.  And  if  I  know 
beforehand  what  he's  going  to  say  about  a  thing  I  say  it 


202  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

quickly  first.  Then  he  nods  at  me,  as  if  anyhow  he  were 
always  sure  of  me." 

"Well,  of  all  the  hypocrites " 

"It  isn't.    Don't  you  see?" 

Coral  looked  at  her  kindly. 

' '  Oh,  in  a  way  I  suppose,  it  is — ' '  Laura  sighed.  ' '  But — 
but  I  don't  believe  it's  wrong.  You  see — Justin's  so 
straight-forward.  If  he's  in  a  mood — well,  he's  in  a  mood. 
He  couldn't  suppress  himself  for  the  sake  of — oh,  polite- 
ness or  amusing  people  or  being  pleasant.  He  wouldn't 
know  how  to.  But,  my  dear,  if  I  started  that — being  my- 
self— it  wouldn't  work.  Suppose  I  were  in  a  depressed 
mood  one  day  when  Justin  was  cheerful  and  stuck  to  my 
mood  instead  of  slipping  into  his?  Why,  he  wouldn't 
know  what  was  happening.  He'd  ask  if  I'd  got  toothache. 
He'd  be  bored  to  death." 

Coral  was  looking  interested. 

"Considering  the  little  fool  you  can  be,  you  know  some- 
thing about  men.  Where  d'you  get  it  from,  Laura?" 

"Birds'  eggs,"  said  Laura  with  a  twinkle. 

"Oho!  Now  I  see!  Well,  fire  ahead!  'Justin  would 
be  bored.'  Not  that  that  would  hurt  him." 

"No,  but,  he'd  go  home.  And  if  I  were  myself  for  a 
week  he  'd  go  home  for  good.  I  'd  lose  him.  And  then  I  'd 
die." 

"You  won't  keep  it  up  when  you're  married,"  said 
Coral,  with  her  esoteric  smile. 

"I  shall.  Always  and  always  and  always.  Every  day 
till  the  last  minute  of  my  life.  What  does  it  matter  ?  I  'm 
happy.  But  it's  all  nonsense  to  say  that  two  plants  can 
grow  in  one  pot.  It  doesn't  work.  They  haven't  room. 
But  you  can  graft  one  on  to  the  other  as  a  rule.  I'm 
grafted  on  to  Justin.  Oh,  I  daresay  I'd  have  been  a 
showier  plant  in  a  pot  of  my  own;  but  it's  too  late  to 
ungraft  me  now.  I'd  shrivel.  I'm  rooted  in  Justin." 

Coral,  demolishing  that  theory  of  life,  was  Jael  and  her 
hammer  in  one. 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  203 

"That's  crazy.  That  doesn't  work.  Suppose  he  died? 
"What's  the  use  of  shuddering?  He  might.  It's  not  com- 
mon sense  to  get  so  fond  of  any  one.  It's  not  fair  to  your- 
self." 

Laura  smiled. 

"You  needn't  worry  about  me." 

"And — "  Coral  had  an  odd,  fugitive  air  of  resenting 
the  happy  light  in  Laura's  eyes — "it's  not  fair  to  him." 

The  light  faded.     Laura  began  anxiously 

' '  Not  fair  ?     What  do  you  mean — not  fair  ? ' ' 

' '  Only  that  you  '11  spoil  him,  if  you  haven 't  already,  you 
and  Grannie  between  you.  And  I  '11  tell  you  another  thing. 
Haven't  you  found  out  yet,  you  little  fool,  that  a  man 
doesn't  want  to  be  loved?  He  wants  to  do  that  himself. 
He'll  think  all  the  world  of  you  if  you  make  him  feel  like 
loving  you ;  but  he  won 't  say  thank-you  if  you  just  love 
him.  Don 't  tell  me !  I  know  men. ' ' 

"Oh — men!"  said  Laura  disdainfully. 

"Well,  Justin's  not  a  cherub,  is  he?  He's  not  just  a 
face  and  a  boa." 

"I  don't  think,"  said  Laura,  with  careful  forbearance, 
"that  perhaps  you  quite  understand  Justin.  He's  not 
quite  ordinary,  you  know.  He  wants  a  lot  of  understand- 
ing." 

"Oh,  go  along!"  said  Coral. 

"Oh,  I'm  going.  I'm  going  through  the  woods  with 
Justin.  We  fixed  it  yesterday.  Come  too?  It  would  do 
you  good." 

But  Coral  only  shrugged  her  shoulders  with  an  air  that 
Laura  thought  ungracious.  It  had  been  an  effort,  though 
she  liked  her,  to  ask  Coral  to  join  them.  But  she  had  been 
struck  by  a  certain  dreariness  in  Coral 's  pose,  as  she  moved 
aimlessly  across  the  room.  The  room  itself,  as  she  looked 
at  it,  deepened  the  effect,  for  it  was  curious  how  Coral,  in 
spite  of  the  well-trained  housemaids,  had  contrived  to  make 
her  comfortable  quarters  appear  squalid.  Her  windows 
were  more  than  shut,  they  insisted  that  they  had  never 


204.  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

been  opened.  Pink  powder  had  been  spilled:  soiled  blue 
ribbons,  a  string  of  pearl  beads,  and  the  switch  that  did 
not  match  Coral's  hair  by  daylight,  hung,  entangled,  from 
a  half-shut  drawer.  Coral  had  been  lying  down  when 
Laura  came  in,  and  the  state  of  Mrs.  Cloud's  embroidered 
quilt  would  have  moved  even  tolerant  Mrs.  Cloud.  Her 
book  and  her  slippers  had  been  flung  across  the  room  and 
the  skirt  out  of  which  she  had  stepped  still  lay,  a  pool  of 
silk,  upon  the  floor.  Yet  she  herself  remained  as  neat  as 
a  hair-net  and  tight  corsets  could  make  her.  That,  thought 
Laura,  who  was  untidy  in  other  fashion,  was  what  amazed 
one  so  in  Coral.  She  was  like  a  trim  yacht  in  a  scummy 
harbour,  incongruously  yet  indubitably  anchored  and  at 
home.  The  spectacle  distressed  Laura,  too  young  to  think 
it  right  to  let  people  be  comfortable  in  their  own  way ;  but 
it  distressed  her  still  more  to  think  of  Coral  sitting  there 
moping  all  the  afternoon.  She  was  afraid  she  had  talked 
too  much — she  had  forgotten  how  near  a  cry  it  was  from 
Justin  to  John.  .  .  .  Poor  Coral!  ...  It  wasn't  fair  to  tell 
of  blue  skies  to  a  blind  man.  .  .  .  She  couldn  't  leave  Coral 
to  sit  by  herself  in  that  pig-sty  and  brood.  .  .  . 

She  turned  back  into  the  room. 

"Look  here,  Coral — you've  got  to  come  out  with  us." 

"Wouldn't  Justin  be  pleased!"  said  Coral,  without  mov- 
ing. 

"Of  course  he  would,"  Laura  lied  stoutly. 

Coral  winked. 

It  is  difficult  to  be  a  Samaritan  when  the  object  of  your 
solicitude  winks  at  you ;  but  Laura  managed  it. 

"Where's  your  hat?"  she  insisted.  "It'll  do  you  good, 
a  walk." 

"I  know  when  I'm  not  wanted,  thank-you,"  said  Coral, 
without  expression.  But  Laura  thought  she  understood. 

' '  If  you  mean — because  of  us "  She  blushed  faintly, 

stumbling  over  her  words,  "There's  nothing — you 
needn't—" 

"Oh,  I  know  that!"    And  again  Carol's  instant  compre- 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  205 

hension  of  all  that  Laura  was  not  herself  sure  she  meant, 
was  disconcerting.  "But — "  she  hesitated;  then,  rapidly, 
not  looking  at  Laura,  "but  Johnnie's  brother  hasn't  much 
use  for  Johnnie's  wife,  if  you  want  to  know — and  he 
doesn  't  care  who  knows  it. ' ' 

"That's  not  true,"  Laura's  head  went  up.  How  dare 
Coral — Coral ! — criticize  Justin  ? 

"It's  perfectly  true."     Coral  eyed  her  steadily. 

"You've  no  right  to  say  such  a  beastly  thing  about  him. 
I  won't  allow  it." 

"All  right,  dearie.  Have  it  your  own  way.  But  it's 
true,  and  you  know  it's  true,  else  you  wouldn't  be  so  hop- 
ping mad." 

"Now  listen  to  me,  Coral,"  Laura  tried  to  be  calm  and 
forbearing.  "I'm  not  angry  with  you.  I  only  want  you 
to  understand.  You're  unjust.  You  don 't  know  how  good 

Justin  is.     It's  dreadful  to  accuse  him  of — of "  she 

hesitated.  Then  she  tried  again.  "Oh,  surely,"  she  pro- 
tested, "you  know  his  little  ways  by  now." 

' '  Oh,  I  know  'em, ' '  Coral  laughed. 

"Yes,  but  you've  no  right  to  laugh  like  that."  Then, 
disarmingly,  "Oh,  I  understand,  of  course.  But  Justin — 
he  hasn't  the  faintest  idea  that  he  isn't  always  nice  to 
you.  He'd  be  horrified.  He'd  be  hurt.  Because  I  know 
he  tries  to  be  jolly  to  you  in  his  own  way." 

"Isn't  it  kind  of  him?"  said  Coral. 

Laura  stamped. 

"I  won't  talk  to  you.  You're  impossible.  Just  because 
he's  not  a  man  of  words!  You  wait  till  you're  in  a  hole, 
that's  all,  then  you'll  see." 

Coral  turned  on  her  fiercely. 

"Well,  I  am  in  a  hole.     And  I  have  seen." 

Laura  stared.  There  were  actually  tears  in  Coral's  ex- 
pressionless eyes  as  she  launched  into  passionate  speech. 

' '  Oh,  Laura,  Laura,  it 's  such  a  chance !  Didn  't  you  hear 
him  the  other  night,  talking  about  Willy — Mr.  Wilbraham 
«— as  if  they  were  pals  ? ' ' 


206  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

"That  funny  little  actor  man?  Oh,  yes,  he's  been  here 
often.  Justin  and  he  were  at  college  together." 

"Willy!"  Coral  swept  on  unheeding.  "I  couldn't  be- 
lieve my  ears.  Willy!  He  runs  half  the  shows  in  Lon- 
don. Why — why — you're  made  if  he  takes  you.  Think 
of  it!  To  get  into  London!  To  get  one's  chance!"  She 
began  to  walk  up  and  down  the  room.  "I — I  can't  stick 
here,  you  know.  Grannie  knows  too.  I've  scared  Brack- 
enhurst  already.  And  there's  the  child.  Don't  I  know 
what  '11  happen  ?  Can 't  I  see  it  happening  ?  Do  you  think 
I  don't  hear  you  all,  petting  him  and  curing  his  accent, 
and  teaching  him  your  ways?  He'll  be  correcting  me  in 
a  year  or  two — my  own  son !  Oh,  I  know  what 's  good  for 
him.  Grannie  and  Justin  will  send  him  to  school.  It's 
his  right.  I  shan't  stand  in  his  light.  But  I  can't  sit  here 
and  watch  it.  Besides,  I  must  act.  I  love  it.  I  love  my 
job.  It's  meat  and  drink  to  me.  And  Justin  comes  so 
superior  and  talks  at  me  in  Johnnie's  voice,  talks  about 
settling  me  comfortably.  I  don't  want  his  damned  allow- 
ance!" 

"Coral,  Coral!"  Laura  caught  at  the  working  fingers. 

"And  I  don't  want  your  pity  either.  I  can  run  my  own 
show.  You — I  don't  know  why  I  talk  to  you,  you're  such 
a  little  fool."  Yet  Coral  let  herself  be  pulled  down  on  to 
Laura's  knee.  "But  if  you  want  to  know,  I  asked  him — 
I  did  ask  him — if  he'd  give  me  an  introduction  to  Wilbra- 
ham.  I  did  ask  him  that.  It  wouldn't  have  cost  him  a 
farthing." 

"But  Justin  didn't  refuse?" 

"Oh,  he  didn't  refuse.  But  he  made  feel  me  what  cheek 
he  thought  it.  I  don't  ask  him  again.  But  oh,  Laura, 
they've  got  a  new  show  coming  on  at  the  Fleur-de-Lys. 
I've  heard  from  a  pal — a  dead  secret — no  parts  given  yet. 
And  there's  one  that's  mine — absolutely!  I  know  it!  My 
chance — if  I  could  only  get  hold  of  Willy.  But  you  know 
what  he  is.  Nobody  can  get  near  Willy  without  an  intro- 
duction." 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  207 

Laura  rose  with  decision. 

"Justin  didn't  understand.  I'll  speak  to  him.  Of 
course  he'll  write  to  Mr.  Wilbraham.  He'll  be  only  too 
glad." 

Coral  clutched  at  her. 

' '  You  darling !  Oh,  you  darling !  Laura,  if  you  worked 
that  for  me,  I'd "  She  choked. 

Her  excitement  was  as  pathetic  as  it  was  incomprehensi- 
ble to  Laura.  She  laughed  and  said 

"When  ought  you  to  go?" 

"At  once.  Grannie  won't  mind.  We've  talked  things 
out  already,  Timmy  and  everything.  If  I  went  up  this 
afternoon — 

"Oh,  Coral!  And  miss  the  dinner-party  next  week?" 
A  dinner-party,  even  a  dinner-party  in  honour  of  the  new 
curate  and  the  twins'  holiday,  was  an  event  to  Laura. 

"My  dear,  I  can't  help  it.  If  I'm  to  get  the  part  I  must 
be  up  in  town  at  once.  I'd  go  to  my  pal's  for  the  night 
and  get  details — to  know  how  to  dress  up  to  the  part. 
This  won't  do."  She  plucked  at  her  black  skirt.  Then 
anxiously,  "Oh,  but  are  you  sure  he'll  write?" 

"Don't  you  worry.    You  go  and  talk  to  Grannie." 

Laura's  security  infected  even  Coral.  She  flung  her 
arms  about  her  neck  again. 

"You  dear!    You  dear!     You  utter  dear !" 

Laura  laughed  and  left  her. 

When  she  came  back  she  was  radiant. 

"What  did  I  tell  you?  Of  course  he  will!  I  told  you 
so !  I  knew  he  would !  He  said — why  ever  didn  't  you  tell 
him?  He  never  took  it  in  that  you  really  wanted  it.  He 
says  he'll  write  tonight.  What  did  I  tell  you?  He  says 
he'd  better  write  privately  to  Mr.  Wilbraham,  instead  of 
just  giving  you  a  bearer  note.  He  was  perfectly  sweet. 
I  knew  he  would  be.  Now  will  you  own  you're  wrong?" 

Coral,  in  her  gratitude,  would  have  owned  anything. 

Laura  ran  on. 

"Yes,  and  we  can't  go  out  after  all,  because  he's  just 


208  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

heard  about  that  cabinet.  You  know — the  one  he  ordered 
for  the  new  eggs.  It  may  arrive  today,  and  he's  got  to 
superintend  them  carrying  it  up  if  it  comes.  I'm  rather 
glad.  The  woods  are  sopping  and  I  know  I've  a  cold  com- 
ing on.  So  I'll  be  able  to  see  you  off.  Have  you  looked 
up  trains?  Does  Mrs.  Cloud  approve?  You  will  let  us 
know  at  once,  won't  you?  Justin  said  he'd  write  most 
floriferously.  I  knew  he'd  be  nice.  He  didn't  expect  the 
cabinet  this  week.  He's  as  excited  as  you  are." 

Laura  was  excited  herself — pardonably  triumphant.  It 
was  a  solution  for  so  much.  The  difficulties  with  Timothy 
— Mrs.  Cloud — (Coral,  though  she  were  fond  of  her,  had 
been,  she  could  guess,  a  strain  upon  Mrs.  Cloud)  Justin's 
own  discomfort — Coral's  unrest — all  had  been  dispelled  by 
Justin.  Justin  might  have  his  ways,  but  underneath  those 
ways  what  a  truly  satisfactory  Justin  he  was!  She  could 
not  help  rubbing  it  in  as  she  drove  Coral  to  the  station. 
She  hoped  Coral  was  properly  confounded — Coral,  with  her 
strictures  and  criticisms  and  her  knowledge  of  men. 

She  said  good-bye  to  her  with  relief  and  regret  and  tri- 
umph. Her  cold  was  worse  the  next  day,  and  on  the  next 
she  was  in  bed.  It  was  the  beginning  of  the  week  before 
she  was  about  again.  It  was  the  middle  of  the  week  be- 
fore she  found  a  letter  on  her  breakfast  plate. 

She  did  not  know  the  handwriting,  but  the  deep  lavender 
of  the  paper  and  the  cheap  ink  had  a  familiar  look,  were 
in  affinity  with  the  lace  blouses  and  the  scent  and  the  ear- 
rings to  which  she  had  grown  accustomed.  She  did  not 
even  glance  at  the  signature,  so  sure  was  she  that  the  letter 
was  from  Coral. 

I've  got  a  job!  Got  it  Tuesday,  but  I  couldn't  write 
before — been  too  rushed  with  clothes.  I  went  to  the  Fleur- 
de-Lys  first  thing — but  no  go.  Wouldn't  look  at  me. 
Never  got  near  any  one,  not  even  the  A.S.M.,  let  alone 
Willy.  It  can't  be  helped,  but  I  am  sick — because  the  girl 
who's  got  it,  I  heard  today,  is  just  my  type.  'If  I  could 
have  only  got  at  Willy!  I  know  she  can't  walk  across  a 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  209 

stage  even — just  an  elderly,  academy  flapper,  because  she 
was  with  me  in  a  fit-up  once.  But  she's  a  friend  of  the 
8.M. — ''Nuff  said!  Well,  dearie — the  end  of  it  was  I  got 
so  fed  up  doing  the  rounds — Whitney  asked  me  if  I'd  walk 
on — me!  I  could  have  slapped  his  face — and  yet  I  wanted 
to  howl — I've  got  all  soft  among  you  dears — and  then  com- 
ing out  I  barged  bang  into  old  Stevenson — you  know  I  told 
you  how  Johnnie  used  to  kick  up  such  a  fuss  about  him — 
and  my  dear,  he's  taking  out  a  tour — Africa — a  year's  job 
at  least,  and  possibly  India  and  Australia  afterwards,  and 
even  America.  Stock.  And  he's  offered  me  to  share  leads 
with  Phdebe  Desborough!  She's  a  good  sort — decent — I've 
digged  with  her  before  now  and — well,  I've  accepted  it. 
The  money's  not  much,  but  they  provide  the  costumes  and 
I  know  most  of  the  crowd,  and  Stevie  and  I  have  always 

been  pals — in  fact,  I  shouldn't  be  surprised Stop  it, 

Coral! 

But  it's  something  settled  anyway.  That  Wilbraham 
business  did  for  me — I'd  counted  so.  You  never  know  your 
luck,  do  you?  I  expect  Justin  did  what  he  could — but  oh, 
if  I'd  only  been  able  to  see  Willy! 

We  start  Saturday — it'll  be  an  awful  scramble.  I  sup- 
pose you  and  Justin  wouldn't  come  and  see  me  off?  Don't 
bring  Tim.  I've  written  to  Grannie.  We  talked  things 
out,  you  know.  And  I  know  she  won't  set  him  against  me. 
I  know  that,  else  I'd  never  let  her  have  him.  But  it's  best 
for  him.  I'm  not  quite  a  fool.  The  train  leaves  Victoria 
2.15.  If  Timmy  misses  me — but  you'd  better  not  bring 
him.  Wish  I  could  have  got  the  London  job.  Well — it's 
done  now.  Justin  will  get  up  on  his  hind  legs  and  prance, 
but  I  can't  help  it.  Grannie  won't,  anyway.  She'll  un- 
derstand. She's  worth  all  the  rest  of  you  put  together. 
That's  why  I  let  her  have  Timmy.  You'll  look  after 
Timmy  ? 

Laura  hurried  on  to  the  immense  Coral  Cloud  sprawling 
across  the  last  page  and  smiled  absently  at  a  sudden  mem- 
ory of  Coral  expatiating  on  the  effectiveness  of  her  stage 


210  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

name:  "So  catchy!  The  Cherry-Pie  Tooth-Paste  people 
were  after  it  once!  wanted  a  signed  photo.  Only  Johnnie 
struck — the  billy!  It's  quite  worth  while!  They  don't 
pay  cash,  of  course,  but  you  get  their  creams  for  nothing. ' ' 

Justin  had  been  wooden  as  he  listened. 

But  her  smile  died  away  as  she  read  the  letter  again. 
She  could  not  understand  what  had  happened.  It  had 
been  Coral's  business  and  Coral's  alone  to  prove  her  ca- 
pacity ;  but  Justin  had  definitely  promised  to  write  in  such 
a  way  that  the  interview  at  least,  would  be  assured  her. 
Justin  was  no  tall  talker.  If  he  said  he  could  do  that 
much,  Laura  knew  that  he  could  do  it.  Besides,  she  herself 
had  more  than  once  met  the  elusive  Mr.  Wilbraham  at  the 
Priory  ...  a  nice  quiet  man.  .  .  .  She  knew  that  he  and 
Justin  were  friends.  .  .  .  Odd.  ...  It  was  certainly  odd. 
.  .  .  Had  the  letter  miscarried?  Because  of  course — of 
course  Justin  had  written.  .  .  .  There  was  no  question  of 
that  .  .  . 

She  went  puzzling  up  to  the  Priory  to  find  that  Mrs.  Cloud 
had  also  received  a  letter,  carefully  written  and  carefully 
spelled — poor  Coral  at  her  grateful  stilted  best ;  but  it  was 
nearly  all  about  Timothy.  There  was  no  mention  of  the 
Fleur-de-Lys  or  Mr.  Wilbraham. 

They  discussed  the  matter  with  beautifully  concealed  un- 
easiness. 

"Well — "  Laura  began,  and  then  most  cheerfully,  "oh 
well—" 

Mrs.  Cloud  drummed  with  her  fingers. 

"After  all,  it's  her  life,"  Laura  argued. 

"Yes.  Yes,  of  course.  And  she  writes  most  sensibly 
about  Timothy." 

"Oh,  Coral's  very  sensible,"  said  Laura  eagerly.  She 
was  glad  to  praise  Coral,  to  be  loyal  and  affectionate  to 
Coral,  in  atonement  for  the  vague  wrong  that  nobody  had 
done  Coral. 

"Yes,  she's  a  dear,  good  girl!"  Mrs.  Cloud's  tone 
matched  Laura's.  "I  wish — I  wish  she  could  have  stayed 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  211 

in  England — have  kept  in  touch — "  And  then,  "I  sup- 
pose— that  part ? ' ' 

"Oh,  I  expect  there  were  hundreds  of  applicants,"  said 
Laura  hastily,  refusing  to  remember  Coral's  excitement — 
'A  dead  secret — keeping  it  dark — you  know  what  Willy 
is!' 

"Most  probably  she  wasn't  suitable,"  said  Mrs.  Cloud. 

' '  One  never  knows, ' '  Laura  was  evasive.  ' '  Is  Justin  in  ? 
I  haven 't  seen  him  since  Coral  left. ' ' 

Mrs.  Cloud's  face  brightened  as  the  sky  does  when  a 
cloud  has  slid  from  the  moon. 

"I  know.  He's  wanted  you.  He's  been  so  busy.  The 
new  cabinet  came  that  same  afternoon." 

"Oh!"  said  Laura  slowly.  "Oh — the  cabinet  came  the 
same  afternoon. ' '  And  then — ' '  I  think  I  '11  go  up  to  him. ' ' 

She  went  out  of  the  room  quietly,  with  none  of  her  usual 
joyous  flurry.  Mrs.  Cloud  did  not  watch  her  go.  Indeed 
they  had  not  once  met  each  other's  eyes  as  they  talked 
together. 

Justin's  room  was  full  of  cotton-wool,  and  disem- 
bowelled cupboards,  and  drawers  piled  criss-cross  on  each 
other,  and  a  Justin  so  happily  absorbed  that  Laura  knew 
she  should  have  laughed  and  blessed  him  and  settled  down 
to  help.  But  she  could  not.  Even  his  welcome  did  not 
warm  her  as  she  stood  in  the  doorway  and  watched  him. 

"Here  you  are!  Good!  I  nearly  came  round  for  you 

yesterday.  Now  look  here — would  you  put "  He 

went  into  details. 

She  spoke  through  them. 

"Justin — you  did  write  that  letter,  didn't  you?" 

"But  then  Bellew  has  cases  with  glass  tops.  What  let- 
ter?" 

"To  Mr.  Wilbraham.     About  Coral." 

"Oh!     No— not  yet.     I  don't  believe  I  have." 

"Justin!     And  you  promised   Coral." 

"Well — I  did  mean  to.  I'm  going  to.  I'll  write  to- 
night." 


212  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

"You  needn't,"  said  Laura  without  expression.  "The 
part's  filled." 

"Oh,  well!  there'll  be  another  soon,"  said  Justin  com- 
fortably. "I'm  sorry.  I  really  am  sorry.  But  what  with 
this  arriving — isn't  it  a  beauty?  You  haven't  half  looked 
at  it,  Laura! — and  getting  things  straight  again — I  simply 
hadn't  time." 

"You  hadn't  time!" 

The  contempt  in  her  voice  startled  them  both — stung  like 
a  whip ;  but  she  hurt  herself  more  than  she  hurt  him.  She 
had  not  realized  that  it  was  possible  to  feel  like  that  to 
Justin.  She  was  frightened  at  herself. 

But  Justin  was  annoyed.  He  did  not  feel  guilty,  he  felt 
injured.  He  was  quite  sure  he  hadn't  had  time. 

"Oh,  shut  up,  Laura!"  he  adjured  her,  and  then,  with 
gathering  indignation — ' '  Look  here,  you  know — shut  up ! " 
and  so  retired  into  the  silence  that  awaits  apologies. 

But  something  was  wrong  with  Laura  that  day.  She  too 
was  silent,  with  a  difference  in  the  quality  of  her  silence 
that  disturbed  him.  Where  he  was  dignified,  she  was  omi- 
nous. Glancing  across  at  her  he  found  her  studying  him 
and  his  occupation  with  an  impersonal,  appraising  air  that 
altered  her  whole  face :  and  she  had  grown  white,  so  white 
that  he  noticed  it — that  is  too  say,  he  thought  to  himself 
that  she  was  looking  plain  that  morning.  But  when  she 
did  speak  she  was  outrageous — 

"Justin!  do  you  know — I  think  you're  almost  selfish." 

That  was  the  way,  you  see,  that  she  talked  to  him  when 
he  was  up  to  his  eyes  in  work! 

"Oh?"  said  Justin,  bearing  with  her.  And  then,  in 
sudden  heat —  "Because  I  forgot  to  write  a  letter!" 

"Oft — you  didn't  forget,"  she  said  in  her  lowest  voice. 

"Oh?"  said  Justin  again. 

"You  didn't  forget.  You  just  put  it  off  and  put  it  off, 
because  you  didn't  like  the  bother,  because  you  didn't  like 
Coral." 


FIRST  THE  BLADE 

"Well,  I  don't!"  he  flung  at  her.  "She'd  get  on  any 
one 's  nerves. ' ' 

"Oh  well,  she  won't  bother  you  any  more.  She's  going 
abroad.  Touring. ' ' 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"My  dear  girl!  it's  her  own  doing.  We've  offered  her 
a  home  and  income.  She  need  never  see  a  theatre  again." 

Laura  looked  at  him  in  a  sort  of  despair. 

"What's  the  use  of  saying  that?  Do  you  know  what 
you  're  saying  ?  '  Oh,  Sunflower,  I  've  such  a  nice  cellar  for 
you !  If  you  '11  come  and  live  in  it,  you  never  need  see  the 
sun!'  " 

"You're  talking  absolute  nonsense,"  said  Justin  aus- 
terely. 

"I'm  not.  It's  you.  You  can  no  more  put  yourself  in 

another  person 's  place You  can  no  more  imagine  how 

Coral  feels " 

He  looked  at  her,  on  that,  with  something  of  the  despair 
with  which  she  had  looked  at  him. 

"Look  here,  old  girl,"  he  began,  with  heavy  patience, 
"you  mayn't  believe  me,  but  honestly,  if  I'd  had  any  idea 
you  were  so  keen  on  Coral " 

' '  Coral  ?  Coral  ?  What  do  I  care  for  Coral  ? "  she  asked 
him  fiercely. 

"But  if  you're  not  upset  about  Coral,"  demanded  the 
logical  sex,  "what's  all  the  row  about?  What's  the  matter 
with  you?" 

She  turned  away  from  him  because  she  felt  her  lips  were 
trembling. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said  weakly.  "I  don't  know." 
And  then — ' '  I  know  I  'm  very  unhappy. ' ' 

She  trailed  away  to  the  window,  without  a  glance,  with- 
out, I  give  you  my  word,  a  glance  at  the  new  cabinet,  though 
it  half  blocked  her  way. 

He  did  not  know  whether  he  should  laugh  or  be  bored  by 
her  inexplicability.  He  was  not  in  the  habit  of  translating 


2U  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

his  sensations  into  thoughts,  but  what  he  really  wanted 
was  that  she  should  stop  talking  and  be  smiling  and  in- 
terested in  his  interests,  and  be  quick  about  it,  so  that  he 
might  legitimately  dispense  with  his  quite  definite  discom- 
fort. Yet  if,  at  that  moment,  she  could  have  broken  down 
completely,  letting  her  trouble  and  her  anxious  love  for  him 
show  itself  in  a  storm  of  tears,  I  believe  that  she  might 
have  won  him.  He  would  have  recognized  tears :  he  would 
have  understood  tears:  he  would  have  done  anything  to 
comfort  tears.  Can't  you  foresee  his  horrified  distress? 
She  might  have  said  all  her  say  and  he  would  have  listened. 
It  was  her  chance,  hers  for  the  taking! 

But  she — she  had  learned  so  rigidly  to  repress  herself  in 
speech  and  still  more  in  manner,  that  she  found  herself  at 
such  a  moment  not  moved  but  frozen.  She  took  it,  with  a 
sort  of  dreary  triumph,  as  a  sign  that  she  had  at  last  at- 
tained self-mastery,  Justin's  virtue — not  considering  that  a 
runaway  engine  and  an  engine  that  has  jammed  are  equally 
beyond  the  driver's  control.  And  so — governed  as  ever  by 
the  Code,  she  told  him  that  she  was  unhappy  in  the  tone 
that  she  would  have  told  Him  that  her  new  shoes  were 
tight.  Yet  she  never  dreamed  that  he  took  her  flippancy 
at  its  face  value — he — Justin — whose  Adamry,  with  the 
deadly  injustice  of  pure  worship,  she  had  endowed  with 
omniscience.  If  Justin  did  not  understand  it  was  because 
he  did  not  choose:  and  he  did  not  choose  because  her  emo- 
tion offended  his  inexorable  taste.  Thus,  merciless  to  him 
as  he  to  her,  she  reasoned,  and  for  the  first  time  in  her  life 
was  bitter  against  him  for  the  hardness  of  his  heart.  Yet, 
affected  as  she  must  always  be  by  his  each  unconscious 
change  of  tone,  how  could  she  fail  to  respond  when  he 
laughed  at  this  good  joke  of  hers  and,  without  admitting 
that  he  should  or  should  not  have  written  to  Coral,  put  it 
to  her,  as  a  woman  and  a  collector,  that  it  was  time  to 
change  the  subject. 

"Unhappy?  Rats!  Come  and  help  with  the  shelves. 
Coral  can  look  after  herself.  Besides,  of  course  I'll  fix  up 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  215 

something.  Only  leave  me  alone,  Laura!  I've  not  done 
you  any  harm.  Don 't  worry  so !  I  can  look  after  myself, 
can't  I?" 

She  looked  at  him  with  great  doubtful  eyes. 

He  laughed  impatiently. 

"Don't  be  such  a  grandmother,"  he  insisted.  "Leave 
me  alone ! ' ' 

She  gave  him  a  smile  then,  a  half  smile  as  doubtful  as  her 
eyes;  but  she  shook  her  head. 

"I  can't,"  said  Laura. 

"Oh,  stuff!"  said  Justin. 

And  then  they  began  to  discuss  matters  of  importance. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

LAURA  had  wanted  Justin  to  come  with  her  to  see  the  last 
of  Coral.  She  knew  that  Coral  would  expect  it :  she  was  of 
the  class  that  could  be  genuinely  moved  in  public.  But  she 
knew  also  that  Justin  would  shiver  at  the  idea  of  Coral's 
farewells.  She  wished  he  did  not  have  to  be  considered: 
she  wished  he  could  laugh  and  say — "Oh,  well,  we  must  go 
through  with  it,  I  suppose,"  and  provide  himself  with 
chocolates  and  roses,  and  endure  a  farewell  from  his  sister- 
in-law  that  might  or  might  not  culminate  in  an  embrace. 
She  wished  he  would  be  vulgar  and  human  and  uncritical 
for  once.  She  wished 

Of  course  he  would  come  if  she  asked  him.  ...  It  would 
be  a  nuisance,  naturally,  with  the  dinner-party  in  the  eve- 
ning, but  they  could  go  up  by  one  train  and  come  back  by 
the  next,  or  start  earlier  and  have  their  lunch  in  town. 
...  If  she  suggested  lunch  he  would  surely  come.  .  .  . 
A  man  hates  to  be  hurried,  but  with  due  time  allowed  for 
the  importances  of  life  he  would  come?  .  .  .  He  ought  to 
come.  After  Coral's  message  he  ought  to  come.  .  .  .  She 
would  go  up  again  to  the  Priory  that  very  afternoon  to  ask 
him.  .  .  . 

She  did.  She  went  up  to  the  Priory  on  Thursday,  and 
again  on  Friday  for  that  express  purpose,  but  she  found 
when  she  tried  that  she  was  not  able  to  ask  him.  She  could 
not  get  out  the  words.  She  was  afraid  of  his  acquiescence, 
of  his  bored,  impatient  acquiescence  that  was  worse  than  a 
refusal.  She  was  afraid — it  gave  her  a  shock  to  realize 
that  she  was  actually  afraid  of  Justin. 

She  took  the  discovery  up  to  town  with  her  that  Satur- 
day, setting  it  to  the  monody  of  the  train. 

* '  Afraid  of  Justin  ?    Afraid  of  Justin  1 ' ' 

216 


FIRST  THE  BLADE 

' '  Absurd !     Absurd !     Afraid  of  Justin  ? ' ' 

Coral,  explicitly,  and  almost  before  they  were  in  speak- 
ing distance,  explanatively  out  of  mourning,  did  not  soothe 
her.  Coral  must  needs  interrupt  embraces,  and  introduc- 
tions to  the  company,  and  asides  to  porters,  and  high- 
pitched  laughter,  and  a  rattle  of  news,  to  say — 

11  You  're  no  relation!  Where's  my  dear  brother-in- 
law?" 

"He  was  awfully  sorry.  He  was  kept  at  the  last  mo- 
ment— quite  unexpectedly.  He  sent  all  sorts  of  messages, ' ' 
said  Laura  successfully.  Then,  because  she  was  an  ama- 
teur, she  added  the  touch  too  much:  "He  was  sure  you'd 
understand. ' ' 

Coral  was  appreciative. 

"What  a  liar  you  are!  You  weren't  a  week  ago! 
What's  been  happening?"  Then,  with  a  scream  of  de- 
light. "Don't  say — oh,  my  dear,  don't  say  you've  had  a 
row  with  him!"  She  tucked  her  arm  into  Laura's  and 
trotted  her  off  down  the  platform.  "Come  on — come  to 
my  compartment  (to  myself,  of  course — leading  lady)  and 
tell  me  all  about  it." 

Laura,  in  her  fright,  was  cruel — 

"And  Timothy  sent  messages  too.  Such  a  lot.  He  did 
so  want  to  come. ' ' 

"You  might  have  brought  him."  Coral  stared  in  front 
of  her. 

"But  you  said — you  said — "  began  Laura,  distressed. 
But  the  clang  of  trundled  milk-cans  drowned  the  answer. 
When  they  could  hear  themselves  again  Coral  had  found 
her  compartment,  and,  settling  herself  and  Laura  in  it, 
was  giving  her  the  private  and  professional  history  of  every 
member  of  the  company  at  once  till  the  carriage  doors  be- 
gan to  slam  and  Laura  had  to  jump  out  in  a  hurry. 

Coral  leant  out  of  the  window. 

' '  Good-bye !  You  were  a  brick  to  come.  Give  my  love 
to  Grannie.  I  '11  write  from  Gib,  tell  her.  And  tell  Justin 
I  quite  understand." 


218  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

"What?" 

Coral  laughed. 

"Oh,  the  message  he  didn't  send,  and — "  she  raised  her 
voice  as  the  train  began  to  creak — ' '  and  the  letter  he  didn  't 
write,  for  that  matter." 

Laura  ran  along,  level  with  the  moving  window,  scarlet, 
voluble. 

"No,  no!  I  wanted  to  tell  you.  I  forgot,  talking.  It 
was  a  mistake.  I  ought  to  have  reminded  him.  He 
couldn't  help  it.  It  was  the  eggs — the  new  cases — it  put 
it  all  out  of  his  head.  He  was  awfully  sorry. ' '  She  quick- 
ened her  pace,  panting,  as  the  train  drew  away  from  her. 
But  Coral's  was  a  carrying  voice. 

"Take  my  tip,  Laura — smash  up  his  old  eggs!  Then 
you'll  have  some  peace!  Good-bye!  Kiss  Timmy!  Good- 
bye! Good-bye!" 

The  train  roared  out  of  the  station. 

Laura,  as  she  muddled  her  way  back  to  her  own  platform 
and  settled  herself  for  the  slow  return  journey,  had  a  half 
smile  for  Coral  and  her  characteristic  farewell.  She  must 
tell  Justin  ...  or  better  not?  .  .  .  He  was  not  likely  to 
stand  a  joke  about  his  collection  .  .  .  He  wouldn  't  see  any- 
thing funny  .  .  .  And  yet  there  was  something  comical 
in  a  grown  man  being  so  absorbed  ...  If  he  could  only 
realize  that  .  .  .  join  in  the  joke  against  himself.  .  .  . 
People  would  laugh  with  him  then  .  .  .  but  as  it  was — 
she  winced — people  who  didn't  understand  laughed  at  him. 
He  made  himself  ridiculous.  .  .  . 

She  wriggled  her  shoulders  uneasily. 

"Of  course,"  she  began,  talking  aloud  to  herself  in  her 
usual  fashion,  "of  course  it's  only  idiots  like  Coral  and 
silly  litfle  Brackenhurst — and  Gran  'papa 's  always  down  on 
every  one  anyway — but  they  do  laugh.  I  wonder — I  sup- 
pose I  couldn't  tell  Justin?"  And  then  bitterly — "As  if 
he'd  listen!  I  don't  count.  Nothing  counts  with  Justin 
except  the  collection.  Queer  how  men  get  wrapped  up  in 
a  toy !  If  I  told  him  what  they  said — not  that  one  cares  a 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  219 

dandelion  for  what  they  say — but  if  I  told  him 

They're  always  saying  'Why  doesn't  he  get  a  job?'  Pure 
envy,  of  course.  But  he'd  only  shrug  his  shoulders.  'They 
say.  Let  them  say!'  Justin  doesn't  care  a  bit  about  peo- 
ple. Half  the  time  he  doesn't  know  they're  there.  And 
he  walks  on  all  their  corns — bless  him!  No  wonder  they 
get  annoyed.  Because  it  is  pure  jealousy.  Why  shouldn't 
he  play?  He's  got  plenty  of  money.  Besides,"  she 
laughed  aloud  tenderly  as  she  sat  all  by  herself  in  the 
empty  carriage  and  thought  of  him,  "it's  so  lovable.  It's 
like  a  child.  He's  awfully  like  Timothy " 

' '  Only  a  child, ' '  she  was  frowning  again,  ' '  a  child  grows 
out  of  its  toys.  But  a  man — what 's  one  to  do  with  a  man  ? 
A  man's  so  horribly  careful  of  his  toys.  What's  one  to 
do?  One  can't  sit  still  and  let  him  be  laughed  at.  What's 
one  to  do  with  Justin?" 

The  Brackenhurst  hills  shrugged  their  tapestried  shoul- 
ders as  she  stared  at  them  through  the  jolting  windows, 
saying  to  her — 

"Heaven  knows!  We  bore  him  and  bred  him,  but — 
what  is  one  to  do?" 

"One  must  do  something,  you  know,"  she  found  herself 
arguing,  "because  he's  not  selfish.  He's  only  self-absorbed. 
He  only  wants  waking  up. ' ' 

"Wake  him  up!"  clanked  the  train,  like  a  live  thing. 
"Wake  him  up — wake  him  up." 

She  turned  fretfully  in  her  seat. 

"How  can  one?  What  can  one  do  with  Justin?  How 
can  one  get  at  him?  He's  never  been  unhappy,  or  poor,  or 
ill.  He  doesn't  know  what  anything  means.  What's  the 
use  of  being  angry  with  him  about  Coral?  Besides — 
they're  all  such  little  things.  He's  never  done  anything 
really  wrong  in  his  life. ' '  And  then,  ' '  I  only  wish  he  had. 
One  could  talk  to  him,  tackle  him  then.  But  if  I  did  talk 
to  him,  what  could  I  say?  It's  such  little  things.  He's 
like  the  man  with  one  talent.  I  always  did  think  that 
man  was  in  the  right  really:  Lo,  thou  hast  thine  own! 


220  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

Justin's  perfectly  justified.     It's  I  who  am  the  fool.    Why 
can't  I  leave  him  alone?" 

She  put  her  hand  to  her  aching  head. 

"I  believe — I  believe  I  think  too  much  about  Justin.     I 

wish  I  could  stop  thinking " 

But  she  could  not.  She  was,  for  the  first  time  in  her 
life,  in  that  mood  which  many  women  and  all  artists  know, 
when  the  accumulated,  unconscious  thinking  of  many  weeks, 
of  many  years  sometimes,  surges  up  and  overflows  the  sur- 
face consciousness.  It  is  in  that  naked  hour  that  things — 
murders — masterpieces — happen.  Those  who  know  assert 
that  it  is  not  an  experience  to  encourage  and  that  when 
it  is  over  you  are  collapsed,  hysterical,  and  sleepless  with 
fatigue. 

But  Laura,  who  did  not  in  the  least  understand  what  was 
happening  to  her,  knew  only  with  a  vague  discomfort  that 
the  world,  the  outer  world,  the  harmonious  web  of  sounds 
and  shapes  and  colours  that  is  the  background  of  conscious 
life,  had  fallen  apart,  inexplicably  and  amazingly,  into 
individual,  unrelated  facts.  The  buttons  of  the  dusty  rail- 
way cushions  became  important,  importunate:  the  steeple 
on  the  sky-line,  the  pony's  swivel  ear,  were  each  and 
equally  a  nucleus  upon  which  her  thoughts  settled  like 
swarming  bees,  from  which  they  lifted  again  in  ominous, 
buzzing  clouds;  while  the  trivial  sounds  about  her,  the 
window  straps  padding  against  the  doors,  the  rub-a-dub 
of  hoofs,  the  unlatched  gate  clicketing  in  the  wind,  the 
hum  of  the  twins'  voices  in  the  next  room,  the  very  sigh 
and  fall  of  her  own  breast,  shaped  themselves  as  the  swing 
of  the  train  had  shaped  itself,  into  words,  into  a  whispering 
refrain  of  five  words — 

' 'Wake  him  up!     Wake  him  up!     Afraid?     Absurd!" 

"Wake  him  up!    Wake  him  up!     Afraid?     Absurd!" 

Underneath  her  gossip  and  laughter  with  the  boys,  and 

her  altercation  with  Aunt  Adela   as   to  when  the   trap 

should  be  ready  and  her  necessary  appreciation  of  Gran'- 

papa's    concomitant    and    rounded    jest — underneath   the 


FIRST  THE  BLADE 

hurry  of  the  dressing  hour  and  her  own  delicious  difficulties 
with  hair  and  frock,  she  was  nevertheless  aware  of  that 
refrain.  In  spite  of  herself  she  listened,  marked  time  to 
it,  fled  from  it  into  the  inmost  recesses  of  her  mind,  and 
still  listened  to  it  as  a  sick  woman  listens  to  a  fly  roaming 
the  room,  or  to  a  barrel-organ,  devil-driven,  in  the  street 
below. 

It  left  her  at  last.  It  left  her  when  she  reached  the 
Priory  and  found  Justin  glad  to  see  her.  It  left  her  then 
and  she  forgot  it  at  once  and  as  utterly  as  if  it  had  never 
been.  But  as  she  sat  at  table  enjoying  herself,  enjoying 
the  lights  and  the  excitement,  and  the  feel  of  her  new 
dress,  and  the  looks  of  the  folk  she  loved,  she  felt  sud- 
denly very  tired.  She  supposed  that  she  wanted  her  din- 
ner. She  hadn't  done  anything  special  that  day.  ...  It 
was  ridiculous  to  be  so  tired  .  .  so  dead  tired.  , 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

IT  was  a  very  pleasant  little  dinner-party.  Everybody 
had  been  cheerful  and  talkative,  and  pleased  with  every- 
body else.  The  new  curate  was  as  neutral  as  a  curate 
should  be  and  as  Annabel  Moulde  would  let  him.  Old  Mr. 
Valentine,  quoting  Shakespeare  and  criticizing  the  cooking, 
was  mellow  with  his  hostess,  and  merciful  to  his  grand- 
children, and  even  allowed  Aunt  Adela,  who  always  ex- 
panded in  the  presence  of  '  the  gentlemen, '  to  gush  and  flut- 
ter unreproved  at  his  deafer  ear. 

Wilfred  and  James,  reliable  as  electric  switches,  had 
been  instantly  illuminated  by  the  advent  of  the  two  pretty 
cousins  and  by  the  end  of  the  meal,  were  already  in  the 
stammering  stage  of  a  great  devotion,  though  still  uncer- 
tain at  which  shrine  to  pay  their  vows.  James,  singing 
Maid  of  Athens  with  equal  feeling  and  flatness,  for  the 
ensnarement  of  Lucy,  could  yet  cock  the  eye  of  a  con- 
noisseur upon  the  proprietress  of  Wilfred:  and  Wilfred, 
after  seconding  his  brother  with  one  finger  in  the  treble  and 
a  magnificent  if  uncertain  bass  accompaniment,  was  yet  not 
averse,  as  he  cushioned  himself  on  the  congratulations  of 
Rhoda,  from  twirling  his  mustachelets,  so  much  more  prom- 
ising than  those  of  James,  in  full  view  of  his  twin's  en- 
chantress. Indeed,  Laura's  experience,  had  she  been  at- 
tending to  them,  would  have  prophesied  a-set-to  partners 
before  the  evening  was  over,  but  a  probable  as-you-were 
by  the  end  of  the  following  day.  She  would  have  foreseen 
a  matinee — two  or  three  matinees — and  probably  a  day  on 
the  river.  She  could  have  told  you,  for  all  her  unworldly 
air,  that  Rhoda  (Laura  did  not  approve  of  Rhoda)  would 
wear  entirely  unsuitable  clothes,  yet  look  so  garishly  at- 
tractive in  them  that  James  would  be  once  more  unsettled 

222 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  223 

in  his  mind:  and  that  Wilfred,  the  good  comrade,  and 
always  the  more  puritan  in  his  tastes,  would  be  relievedly 
ready  to  console  Lucy:  and  that  Lucy  of  the  dove-grey 
frocks,  and  neat  shoes  and  gloves,  would  be  demurely  ready 
to  be  consoled :  and  that  in  the  small  hours  of  Sunday  she, 
Laura,  would  be  roused  from  sound  sleep  to  entertain 
pyjamas  and  receive  confidences,  bestowed,  as  a  dog  bestows 
the  stone  he  wishes  you  to  throw  for  him,  with  circlings  and 
shyings,  and  coy  withdrawals,  with  a  depositing  of  it  at 
your  feet,  and  a  thinking  better  of  it,  and  a  hasty  retreat, 
and  an  elaborate  pretence  of  wishing  to  be  unmolested,  and 
of  not  knowing  anything  of  any  stone  at  all. 

Laura  could  have  anticipated  her  brothers'  every  gambit 
to  you,  if  she  had  not  been  occupied  in  discovering  how 
different  from  the  Justin  of  relaxed  waistcoat  and  pre- 
historic tweeds  was  the  Justin  of  evening  dress  and  hos- 
pitable exertions,  if  she  had  not  been  so  delightfully  em- 
ployed in  saying  how-do-you-do  to  his  creaseless  shirt-front 
and  discreet  studs  and  the  unusually  high  collar  that  suited 
him  better  than  she  could  have  believed,  and  in  renewing 
acquaintance  with  his  deep  voice  and  his  slow  sentences  and 
his  kind  eyes. 

Dinner-parties  were  rare  enough  for  Mrs.  Cloud  to  be 
similarly  engaged.  Somewhere  near  his  tie  (it  was  a  badly 
managed  affair — the  hands  of  both  women  were  itching  to 
be  at  it)  their  glances  met  and  exchanged  conviction  that 
you  might  scour  many  more  dinner-tables  than  England 
held  before  you  found  another  Justin. 

"He  has  his  little  faults,  of  course,"  conceded  Laura's 
eyes. 

"And  I  am  the  first  to  admit  them,"  returned  Mrs. 
Cloud's. 

"Nobody  ever  pretended  that  he  was  perfect,"  Laura 
frowned. 

"At  the  same  time "  laughed  the  old  eyes. 

"And  without  partiality "  amended  the  young 

one's — 


FIRST  THE  BLADE 

' '  Have  you  ever  seen  any  one  like  him  ? ' '  they  demanded 
triumphantly:  and  Laura  and  Mrs.  Cloud  smiled  at  each 
other  across  the  table. 

Dinner  was  over.  Sugar  and  cream  followed  the  mound 
of  strawberries  from  plate  to  plate,  and  Gran  'papa  was  say- 
ing "Doubtless "  in  the  unnatural  voice  of  one  about 

to  make  a  quotation,  when  Mrs.  Cloud  lifted  her  finger. 

"Timothy!"  she  said  resignedly  and  pushed  back  her 
chair. 

"What  about  him?"  Justin  was  at  the  side-board,  busy 
with  cork-screw  and  a  bottle. 

"Listen!" 

There  was  a  thin  piping  in  the  air,  the  merest  adumbra- 
tion of  a  sound  that  might  have  been  a  mouse,  a  creak  in  the 
woodwork,  a  whistle  of  wind,  or,  if  one  were  a  grand- 
mother, a  child  whimpering. 

' ' I  don't  hear  anything, ' '  said  Mr.  Valentine  testily.  He 
disliked  a  reminder  of  his  deafness. 

1 '  Oh,  yes, ' '  said  Mrs.  Cloud.  "  It 's  the  same  every  night. 
He  likes  some  one  to  sit  with  him " 

"Now,  Mother "  Justin's  hand  on  her  shoulder 

would  not  let  her  rise.  "You  stay  where  you  are!  Tim- 
othy's all  right.  He  gets  over  you.  He's  got  to  learn  to 
go  to  sleep  by  himself. ' ' 

Laura  agreed. 

"I  don't  think  a  child  is  ever  too  young  to  be  trained.  If 
you  once  give  way " 

"Exactly!"  Justin  nodded  approval.  "It's  a  question 
of  discipline.  Now,  Mother "  for  Mrs.  Cloud  was  gaz- 
ing unhappily  at  the  younger  generation.  "He'll  soon 
learn  to  be  quiet  if  you  take  no  notice."  He  was  a  little 
impatient.  It  was  a  difficult  to  enjoy  his  strawberries  while 
his  mother  worried. 

"Yes,  really,  Mrs.  Cloud,"  Laura  reassured  her  kindly. 
"It's  the  only  way." 

"My  dear  children,  he'll  cry  the  house  down."  Mrs. 
Cloud  could  not  be  annoyed  with  Justin,  or  with  Laura 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  225 

who  appreciated  Justin,  but  her  voice  was  plaintive. 
"You  don't  understand.  It's  so  bad  for  a  child " 

' '  That 's  temper ! ' '  said  Laura  decisively.  ' '  Pure  temper. 

He  wants  a  lesson.  If  he  were  mine "  The  sound  of 

crying  grew  and  died  again  as  a  maid  opened  and  shut 
the  door. 

''Smack  him,"  said  Laura  firmly.  "A  good  sound 
smacking!  There's  nothing  like  it." 

"She's  quite  right,  Mother,  you  know,"  corroborated 
Justin.  But,  agreeing  with  her  as  he  did,  he  yet  caught 
himself  contrasting  her  pretty,  resolute  frown  with  his 
mother's  soft  distress,  and  thinking  that  if  he  were  Timo- 
thy he  knew  which  he  should  prefer.  Laura  was  a  sensible 
girl,  of  course  .  .  .  but  rather  hard,  in  this  matter  of  a 
small  kid?  Yes,  hard.  .  .  .  He  didn't  like  a  woman  to  be 
hard.  .  .  .  His  mother  now.  .  .  .  Yet  it  was  surprising  that 
his  mother  had  not  put  up  more  of  a  fight  for  Timothy. 
.  .  .  Meekly  letting  herself  be  overborne  by  Laura.  .  .  . 
Yet  behind  that  meekness — he  glanced  suspiciously  across 
the  table — yes,  behind  it  his  mother  was  enjoying  herself 
.  .  .  laughing  at  somebody  or  something.  .  .  .  He  knew 
that  quiet,  delicious  twinkle.  .  .  .  Now  at  whom  or  what, 
he  wondered,  was  she  laughing?  His  uncertainty  spoiled 
the  flavour  of  his  strawberries. 

Laura  also  found  her  dessert  less  toothsome  than  usual. 
Through  the  snatches  of  conversation  she  caught  herself 
alert  for  the  faint  sound  that  had  disturbed  Mrs.  Cloud. 
But  Mrs.  Cloud  had  apparently  forgotten  again. 

Of  course  Timothy  was  a  naughty  child  .  .  .  but  she  did 
think  Mrs.  Cloud  might  after  all  have  gone  up  to  him  .  .  . 
just  for  a  minute.  .  .  .  She  had  expected  her  to  go  in  spite 
of  protests.  He  was  not  crying  now.  .  .  .  All  quiet.  .  .  . 
She  supposed  he  was  all  right.  .  .  .  She  played  with  her 
strawberries.  She  had  taken  far  more  than  she  wanted. 
.  .  .  The  afternoon  had  given  her  a  headache — the  inde- 
cisive, disappointing  afternoon.  ...  It  was  a  pity  to  waste 
five  fine  strawberries.  .  .  .  Timothy  would  have  enjoyed 


226  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

them,  bless  his  greedy  little  heart.  ...  He  was  as  quiet 
as  a  lamb  now.  .  .  . 

' '  I  suppose  he  is  all  right  ? ' '  she  said  aloud  to  no-one  in 
particular.  She  was  unanswered:  the  table  was  all  a- 
chatter.  She  pushed  back  her  chair,  shook  out  her  skirts 
and  picked  up,  unobtrusively,  her  plate  of  strawber- 
ries. 

"Mrs.  Cloud!  I  think  I'll  just  run  up  and  see  if  he's 
all  right.  D  'you  mind  ? ' ' 

A  nod  approved  her  and  she  slipped  out  of  the  room. 
The  bright  old  eyes  followed  her,  well-pleased. 

Justin  did  not  miss  her  till  he  had  put  himself  to  the 
trouble  of  setting  up  the  bridge  table,  a  collapsible  affair 
that  he  had  never  noticed  was  easier  to  manage  with  Laura 
at  his  elbow  to  keep  down  the  legs  that  were  down  and  to 
hold  up  the  legs  that  were  up.  Deserted,  he  found  that 
all  four  legs  were  inclined  to  kick  at  him  and  make  him 
feel  undignified.  He  could  not  help  feeling  annoyed  with 
Laura,  and  said  so  to  his  mother. 

"Where  on  earth  has  Laura  got  to?  Aren't  we  going  to 
have  any  bridge  ? ' ' 

The  twins  and  the  pretty  cousins  had  rioted  into  the  bil- 
liard-room, and  he  regarded  the  emptied  parlour  blankly 
enough.  He  looked  forward  to  his  game  of  bridge,  with  old 
Mr.  Valentine  and  his  mother  safely  partnered,  and  Laura 
opposite  himself — Laura  of  the  intelligent  questions  when 
the  round  was  over,  accepting  reproofs  in  a  proper  spirit — 
Laura,  returner  of  leads  and  reserver  of  thirteenth  cards — 
Laura,  drilled  out  of  all  audacities,  but  so  beautifully  re- 
liable, the  perfect  partner  whom  he  could  pride  himself  on 
having  personally  distilled  from  such  raw  ingredients  as  a 
dislike  of  being  beaten  and  an  early  passion  for  Happy 
Families.  It  occasionally  occurred  to  him  to  be  surprised 
at  the  acquiescence  of  Mr.  Valentine  in  an  inferior  partner, 
never  dreaming  that  Laura  playing  bridge  with  Justin  was 
a  very  different  person  from  Laura  playing  bridge  with 
Gran 'papa  or  anybody  else.  How  should  Justin  guess  that 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  227 

she  played  her  cards  as  a  performing  dog  reads  the  alpha- 
bet, guided,  for  all  her  rapt  air  and  business-like  frown,  by 
the  innumerable  hints  her  all-observant  knowledge  of  him 
gave  her.  How  should  Justin  realize  that  his  left  hand 
a-fiddle  with  his  ear  meant  perplexity,  or  that  the  little  push 
back  in  his  chair,  eyes  on  the  ceiling  and  an  imaginary  fly 
was  a  sure  sign  to  her  that  the  game  was  in  her  hands? 
How  should  he  know  that  his  eyebrows  lifted  ever  so  faintly 
when  he  thought  her  reckless,  and  that  for  him  to  get  up 
and  knock  out  his  pipe  against  the  fire-place  warned  her 
against  going  spades  when  there  were  four  aces  in  his  hand  ? 
But  Laura's  sixth  or  Justin-sense  knew  it  and  blessed  the 
little  tricks  that  helped  her  to  give  him  a  pleasant  evening. 
It  never  occurred  to  her  that  she  was  cheating,  and  that 
Justin  would  have  been  horrified  had  he  known. 

But  she  paid  the  price  of  her  ill  ways.  She  had  not 
studied  Gran  'papa  as  she  had  studied  Justin,  and,  dutifully 
playing  double-dummy  in  the  long  winter  evenings,  she  con- 
trived without  effort  to  make  him  feel  unnecessarily  sorry 
for  Justin. 

Gran 'papa,  with  his  host  and  hostess  and  Aunt  Adela 
in  attendance,  could  dispense  with  his  grand-daughter,  was 
mildly  annoyed  that  Justin,  fidgety  fellow,  must  go  in 
search  of  her  and  that  Mrs.  Cloud  should  suggest  it.  Mrs. 
Cloud  had  been  pleasantly  unable  to  imagine  what  was 
keeping  Laura.  She  had  gone  up  to  Timothy,  but  that  was 
half  an  hour  ago.  Justin  might  run  up  and  see.  Mrs. 
Cloud  would  set  out  the  cards. 

Justin  found  the  nursery  door  ajar  and,  as  he  pushed  it 
open,  the  thin  spear  of  light  upon  the  floor  widened  and 
sharpened  so  that  he  could  not  see  beyond  it.  He  spoke 
into  the  darkness — 

"Laura?" 

"Yes." 

"I  say — isn't  he  asleep  yet?" 

"Of  course.  Fast.  Don't  talk  so  loudly."  Her  under- 
tones were  tense  with  triumph. 


228  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

"Why  don't  you  come  down  then?    We've  been  wait- 


ing— 

"Oh,  I'm  sorry.  But  he  wouldn't  let  me.  He  wouldn't 
let  go."  There  was  the  daintiest  little  chuckle  of  pride  in 
her  voice  and  Justin  felt  his  sense  of  injury  melting.  His 
eyes,  accustomed  to  the  half  darkness,  had  found  her  at 
last,  a  splash  of  black  draperies  on  the  whiteness  of  the 
coverlet.  Timothy,  nominally  a-bed,  had  forsaken  his 
his  pillow  for  her  shoulder  and  there  lay  snug,  all  pink 
curves  and  inadequate  nightgown — one  small  fist  tugging 
at  her  hair.  A  woolly  beast  was  on  her  lap,  and  a  tipped 
plate  that  had  held  strawberries,  for  the  green  calyxes  were 
sliding  off  its  rim.  Her  watch  was  on  the  floor,  and  he 
thought,  by  the  ticking  of  it,  that  the  lid  was  open.  Her 
bracelets  were  on  Timothy's  arm.  He  chuckled. 

"You've  been  having  a  high  old  time!" 

"I?"  she  countered  blankly.  "Don't  creak  so,  Justin. 
What  are  you  looking  for  ? ' ' 

' '  The  slipper.    Didn  't  you  smack  him  ? ' ' 

"You  don't  understand  children,"  said  Laura  coldly. 
"He  was  perfectly  good.  He  only  wanted  managing." 

He  surveyed  the  evidences  of  management  with  a  twinkle, 
but  he  spoke  sympathetically — 

' '  I  say,  old  girl,  you  '11  get  a  stiff  neck.  Keep  still.  No, 
I  won't  wake  him." 

With  immense  caution  his  big  hands  closed  over  the 
clutching,  tiny  fingers,  straightened  them,  and  unwound  the 
tangle  of  bright  hair.  Then,  slipping  his  arm  under  Tim- 
othy, he  lifted  him,  warm  and  relaxed  as  a  kitten,  back  into 
the  identical  hollow  in  which  he  had  lain  before.  For  an 
egg  warm  from  the  nest  he  could  not  have  been  more 
careful. 

Timothy  never  stirred. 

Laura,  smoothing  back  her  hair,  watched  him  in  silence, 
thinking  thoughts  of  her  own.  Then,  as  he  turned,  she  held 
out  her  hands,  smiling. 

"Help  me  up — I  didn't  know  I  was  so  stiff.    He  won't 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  229 

wake  now,  will  he  ?  He  was  dead  tired,  poor  little  chap ! 
I  'm  so  sorry  I  forgot  about  the  bridge — but  you  see — it 's  so 
bad  to  let  them  cry. ' ' 

"Of  course,"  he  agreed  indignantly.  He  too  had  had 
Timothy  in  his  arms.  ' '  What  was  the  matter  ? ' ' 

"Just  frightened.  That  pig  of  a  nurse  had  never  put 
him  a  night-light.  I  shall  tell  Mrs.  Cloud.  It's  a  sin  not 
to  give  a  child  a  night-light,  with  bears  under  every  chair. ' ' 

"Bears!  A  bear  would  have  been  a  comforting  beast! 
I  read  Dracula  when  I  was  seven." 

"It  was  hands  with  me,"  Laura  was  fumbling  in  the 
wash-stand  drawer.  ' '  There  was  a  curio,  a  mummy 's  hand, 
locked  up  in  the  top  drawer  of  the  wardrobe,  at  least  some- 
body said  so.  It  used  to  squeeze  itself  out  and  come  crawl- 
ing down,  dropping  from  one  drawer  knob  to  the  next, 
like  a  spider.  My  bed  was  next  to  the  wardrobe.  I  used  to 
roll  myself  up  in  the  bed-clothes  till  I  nearly  choked,  but 
even  then  I  could  feel  it  through  the  blankets  pawing  at  my 
face." 

"Oh,  beastly!" 

"If  they'd  only  have  1ft  me  have  my  kitten — but  Auntie 
always  took  it  away  last  thing.  Here  are  the  night-lights." 

"But  if  you'd  told " 

' '  One  doesn  't,  you  know.  This  scrap  was  bitterly  afraid. 
I  knew!  But  do  you  think  it  would  tell  me?  Not  it. 
We  discussed  Rumpelstiltskin;  but  there  was  a  bear  behind 
our  chair  all  the  while  and  our  reflections  in  the  looking- 
glass,  and  always  the  dark.  Got  some  matches  ? ' ' 

She  lit  the  night-light  and  set  it  afloat  in  its  saucer.  The 
tiny  flame  turned  the  black  room  grey — a  ghostly,  friend- 
less grey.  Justin  glanced  thoughtfully  from  Timothy  to 
the  swaying  shadows  and  back  again  to  Timothy,  a  small 
enough  sojourner  in  the  desert  of  double  bed.  He  coughed. 

"I  say,  Laura " 

"Yes?" 

"I  say,  Laura — let's  give  him  two  night-lights  and  damn 
the  expense!" 


230  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

"All  right!" 

Her  voice  was  casual,  yet  there  was  something  flame-like 
about  her  as  she  followed  him  across  the  room,  sheltering 
tlje  lighted  match  with  closed  hands,  translucently  scarlet, 
a  living  lamp  that  lit  up  her  delicate  face  and  laughing, 
passionate  eyes  and  the  duller  red  of  her  hair.  And  with 
the  same  flame-like  restlessness  she  hovered  about  him,  en- 
joying, a  little  feverishly,  her  brief  authority. 

"No,  Justin — not  there.  Put  it  in  the  dark  corner,  by 
the  hanging  cupboard.  Yes — oh,  quite  safe.  And,  Justin 
— if  you  fastened  the  curtain  back — right  back — here,  take 
my  scarf — he  would  see  at  once  there  was  nothing  hehind 
it.  That's  splendid.  I  don't  think  he'll  wake  though,  do 
you?  Let's  come  away  quietly." 

They  tiptoed  out  of  the  room. 

But  before  the  lights  of  the  landing  Laura  shrank  oddly, 
like  a  bright  sword  slipping  back  into  its  sheath.  Justin 
glanced  at  her  more  than  once  as  they  went  down,  and, 
the  stairway  being  narrow,  he  made  more  room  for  them 
both  by  slipping  his  arm  through  hers.  He  was  discover- 
ing that  he  did  not  like  Laura  to  look  tired. 

Now  their  curiously  impersonal  alliance  had  never  needed 
more  than  a  hand-shake  at  rare  intervals  to  confirm  it. 
Such  an  unfamiliar  gesture,  unconscious  as  he  was  that  it 
had  been  a  caress,  meant,  she  knew,  so  much  from  him,  im- 
plied so  much  of  intimacy  and  approval,  that  she  flushed  at 
his  touch  in  a  pang  of  secret  delight.  Yet  the  fear  that  was 
always  upon  her  when  she  loved  him  most,  not  of  him,  but 
of  untimely  divergence  from  his  standards,  of  unwittingly 
jarring  his  fastidious  and  uncertain  taste,  held  her,  now  as 
always,  passive,  denying  him  nothing  yet  not  daring  to 
respond,  lest  an  intonation,  a  glance,  or  even  the  little  wel- 
coming pressure  on  his  arm,  should  qualify  the  security  of 
their  relationship. 

Yet,  in  spite  of  her  quiescence  and  his  unconsciousness, 
they  contrived  to  drift  past  the  drawing-room  door,  and 
the  billiard-room  door,  and  all  the  allurements  of  the  bridge 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  231 

table,  to  agree  silently  to  a  pacing  up  and  down  of  the  dim 
terrace,  with  its  black  shadows  and  window-pools  of  light, 
and  its  hedge  of  larkspur  and  lilies,  and  Canterbury  bells 
that  jingled  hoarsely,  as  Laura's  skirts  passing  and  repass- 
ing  set  them  a-sway. 

They  had  left  time  behind  them  in  the  house.  The  dark, 
quiet  minutes  lived  and  died  unnoticed  to  the  soft  crunch 
of  their  feet  on  the  dewy  gravel.  Justin  stared  abstract- 
edly before  him,  and  Laura,  her  step  matching  his,  was 
filled  with  a  sudden  blessed  sense  of  possession  and  for- 
got utterly  all  the  doubt  and  oppression  of  the  previous 
weeks.  She  felt  herself,  even  as  the  plant-life  about  her, 
reviving,  straightening,  drawing  strength  from  the  night, 
and  its  peace  was  poured  upon  her  like  a  precious  oint- 
ment. She  could  even  accept  Justin's  silence  without 
anxiety,  without  the  quick  rummage  of  her  brain  to  re- 
assure herself  that  she  had  amusement  stored  there  for 
him  should  he  show  signs  of  boredom — ideas,  questions, 
hobby-horses  for  his  restlessness  to  straddle.  For  he  was 
restless:  through  her  peace  she  felt  it  stirring  in  him,  and 
longed  as  she  always  did,  to  content  it.  She  slackened. 

"Justin — go  slower.  We're  disturbing  the  night." 
She  stood  still  and,  half  impatiently,  he  acquiesced. 

"Isn't  it  big?     And  not  a  star " 

He  drew  a  deep  breath. 

"What's  that  stuff — coming  across  in  gusts — warm 
gusts?" 

"Sweet  briar.     There's  a  hedge " 

He  sought  awkwardly  for  words. 

"It's — it's  like  a  woman  breathing." 

She  smiled  up  at  him. 

"Why  not?    June's  here." 

He  was  intent. 

"Where?" 

"Here "  Her  free  arm  flung  out  vaguely.  "Can't 

you  feel  her — see  her?" 

"Can  you?" 


232  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

"Yes,  I  can,"  she  said,  low- voiced. 

"Wish  I  could."  He  paused,  expectant,  listening,  till 
all  the  tiny  myriad  noises  that  make  up  silence  disin- 
tegrated once  more.  He  could  hear  the  tinkle  of  the  brook 
three  fields  away,  and  the  croak  of  its  frogs,  and  the  dry 
whisper  of  crickets  in  the  flowery  grass.  Somewhere  in 
the  valley  a  train  roared  and  was  gone  again,  brief  in 
its  passage  as  a  shooting  star,  and  at  his  ear  a  mosquito 
hummed  by  like  an  echo.  The  metallic  strains  of  the  vil- 
lage gramophone,  twanging  out  rag-time,  reached  him, 
all  silvered  over  by  the  distance,  and  he  felt  himself  thrill 
absurdly  to  the  thin,  sweet  sounds.  Before  him  lay  the 
grey,  silent  garden  and  the  black  velvet  of  the  motionless 
woods,  but  a  poplar  on  the  lawn  was  faintly  murmurous, 
like  a  child  sighing  in  its  sleep.  Overhead  the  bats  wheeled 
and  glimmered  with  threadlike  cheepings. 

He  was  suddenly  aware  of  his  own  enormous  restlessness. 
A  muscle  in  his  throat  was  throbbing  hotly :  he  felt  thirsty 
and  unhappy,  and  resentful  of  the  quiet  night  and  the  quiet 
woman  at  his  side  who  did  not  help  him  to  he  knew  not 
what.  He  turned  impatiently. 

"No.  There's  only  us!  June  indeed!  Come  on  in. 
It's  getting  late.  How  cold  your  fingers  are " 

From  a  near  copse  an  owl  hooted  derisively. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

'Ip'  is  the  pivot  of  existence. 

If  Justin  had  stayed  in  the  garden  with  Laura — if  the 
curate  had  found  it  pleasanter  to  make  a  fourth  at  bridge 
than  to  flirt  with  Annabel  Moulde — if  Laura  had  been  a 
year  or  two  older  and  a  decade  or  two  wiser,  old  enough 
to  diagnose  Justin's  symptoms,  wise  enough  to  heal  him 
at  the  right  moment  with  the  right  word — if  Justin  had 
been  scientifically  interested  rather  than  humanly  annoyed 
by  this  new  disturbing  state  of  mind  of  his — then  it  would 
not  have  degenerated  from  significant  malaise  into  mere 
bad  temper,  he  would  not  have  been  rude  to  Aunt  Adela, 
Annabel  Moulde  would  not  have  laughed,  and  you,  Col- 
laborator, could  have  been  assured  your  happy  ending. 

If  Justin  had  stayed  in  the  garden 

But  Justin  went  into  the  house  and  that  new-born 
garden-mood  of  his  resented  it,  resented  the  lights  and  the 
voices,  and  the  need  for  amenities.  It  shrank  uncomfort- 
ably, ashamed  of  his  own  existence  and,  half  in  self-ig- 
norance, half  in  self-defence,  hardened,  as  I  tell  you,  into 
temper,  the  harmless,  unreasonable  bad-temper  to  which 
men  are  always  liable  and  with  which  women  (who  always 
know  why  they  themselves  are  in  a  temper  and  how  far 
they  mean  to  go)  have  no  sympathy  whatever.  Laura 
tried  in  vain  to  understand  what  had  happened.  She 
watched  him  anxiously,  entirely  bewildered,  thinking — 
He's  cross.  .  .  .  Have  I  made  him  cross?  .  .  .  He  was  sj 
different  just  now.  .  .  .  Why  should  he  be  cross?  .  .  . 
And  besides 

She  was  naively  horrified,  you  see,  that  he  should  be  in 
a  temper  when  visitors  were  about.  It  upset  her  severe 
young  notions  of  hospitality. 

233 


234  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

That  three-handed  bridge  was  in  full  swing  did  not 
improve  matters.  Aunt  Adela  was  a  makeshift,  but  one 
could  not  turn  her  out.  Justin  cut  in.  Aunt  Adela  part- 
nered him. 

Now  to  Aunt  Adela  bridge  was  a  game.  She  played  it 
in  the  "Ah,  if  you  could  only  see  my  hand!"  manner, 
with  giggles,  and  leading  questions,  and  audible  asides. 
She  would  regularly  outbid  the  rest  of  the  table  and  ex- 
plain the  ensuing  debacle  by  admitting,  with  modest  pride, 
that  she  was  afraid  she  had  the  gambling  instinct.  Also, 
she  thought  it  showed  a  grasping  spirit  not  to  let  her  take 
back  a  card  when  it  was  obvious  to  every  one  that  she  had 
put  it  down  by  mistake. 

And  while  she  chattered  (she  called  Justin  "Mr.  Part- 
ner") Gran 'papa  raked  in  the  tricks  with  an  expression  of 
almost  religious  satisfaction,  and  Justin's  face  grew  so 
black  that  Mrs.  Cloud  glanced  at  him  once  uneasily.  Her 
son  hardly  ever  lost  his  temper,  but  when  he  did  he  called 
every  one  to  help  him  look  for  it.  Yet  he  was  generally 
no  more  than  decently  morose  over  cards.  .  .  .  Had  he 
and  Laura  bickered  in  the  garden?  .  .  . 

"Having  no  hearts,  Miss  Adela?"  Justin's  voice  was 
implacable. 

Aunt  Adela  fluttered.  Now  that  he  mentioned  it — to 
tell  the  truth — Mrs.  Cloud's  candied  fruits  were  delicious, 
of  course,  and  such  a  good  idea — so  much  better  than  choco- 
lates to  have  on  a  card-table — less  thirsty — but  they  cer- 
tainly made  one's  fingers  just  a  little  bit  sticky  and  that 
was  why,  she  supposed,  her  heart  had  got  stuck  behind 
another  card.  However,  here  it  was — no  harm  done — her 
trump  would  come  in  nicely  later  on. 

Justin  breathed  heavily. 

"And  the  odd!"  announced  Gran 'papa. 

To  make  matters  worse  the  billiard  players  had  finished 
their  game  and  had  gathered  round  to  watch  and  comment, 
though  Justin,  as  Laura  knew,  hated  an  audience. 

And  then  Justin  revoked. 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  235 

He  had  never  done  such  a  thing  in  his  life !  Laura  knew 
— his  mother  knew — he  had  never  done  such  a  thing  in 
his  life!  But  if  people  would  gabble  and  chatter — Beg- 
gar-my-Neighbour — Perfect  farce — He  had  never  done 
such  a  thing  in  his  life!  .  .  .  He  said  nothing  with  beau- 
tiful restraint,  but  those  were  the  thoughts  that  you  could 
see  rippling  one  after  another  over  his  Adam's  apple. 
It  was  an  awful  moment. 

But  even  then  the  situation  might  have  been  saved  if 
Aunt  Adela,  in  the  giddy  delight  of  the  revoke  not  being 
hers,  had  not  been  coy  about  it  at  the  end  of  the  round. 

"Well,  Mr.  Partner,  and  what  have  you  got  to  say  for 
yourself  now?"  etc.,  etc.  Upon  which  Justin — of  course 
there  is  no  excuse  whatever  for  Justin — looked  the  good 
lady  very  deliberately  up  and  down  and,  without  answer- 
ing, turned  to  Mr.  Valentine. 

Aunt  Adela  flushed,  with  that  sudden  change  from  carica- 
ture to  quaintly  pathetic  dignity  that  an  elderly  spinster 
can  sometimes  achieve.  Laura  saw  it.  Impulsively  she 
put  out  her  hand  (she  was  sitting  beside  him)  and  touched 
Justin's  arm. 

"Justin!"  she  breathed. 

He  shook  it  off. 

"One  diamond!"  he  defied  them. 

It  was  at  that  moment  that  she  looked  up  to  find  the 
eyes  of  Annabel  Moulde  fixed  upon  her. 

She  stared  back,  insolent  as  Justin  a  moment  ago,  and 
Annabel  turned  away. 

But  Annabel  had  been  laughing. 

An  hour  later,  in  the  quiet  of  her  own  room,  she  tried 
to  shrug  her  shoulders,  wisely,  tolerantly,  at  the  pin-prick 
— and  could  not. 

If  she  had  gone  home,  if  she  had  been  able  to  go  home 
after  that  appeasing  hour  when  Justin  had  helped  her  with 
Timothy,  when  they  had  walked  together  on  the  terrace, 
she  knew  that  she  should  have  fallen  asleep  happily,  hope- 
fully, though  on  what  she  based  her  happiness  and  her  hope 


236  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

she  could  not  have  told  you.  But  Annabel  had  laughed, 
more  maliciously,  more  discreetly,  yet  as  Coral  might  have 
laughed :  and  in  a  flash  the  old  thoughts,  the  old  bitterness, 
had  overwhelmed  her  again.  She  inveighed  against  her- 
self. Was  she  such  a  weakling  that  she  could  be  moved 
by  what  outsiders  chose  to  think  ?  Annabel,  indeed !  That 
for  Annabel!  But  Annabel  had  been  laughing  at  Justin 
...  at  Justin,  a  grown  man — making  a  fool  of  himself — 
over  a  game!  ...  at  Laura,  unable  to  stop  him,  without 
the  faintest  influence.  ...  A  trifle?  Of  coure  it  was  a 
trifle,  the  straw  which  showed  so  clearly  to  Annabel,  to 
all  the  world,  which  way  the  wind  blew.  Such  a  trifle  that 
if  she  spoke  to  Justin.  .  .  .  What  was  the  use  of  speaking 
to  Justin,  of  telling  him  what  she  thought?  It  would 
only  mean  a  row.  .  .  .  He  had  been  annoyed  the  other 
day,  about  the  letter.  ...  It  wasn  't  her  business  to  criticize 
Justin.  .  .  .  And  if  it  were,  that  wasn't  the  way  to  do 
it.  ...  Men  must  be  humoured.  .  .  .  And  after  all,  it 
wasn't  difficult  to  humour  Justin.  .  .  . 

She  smiled  to  herself  as  she  combed  out  her  long  hair, 
and,  parting  it  carefully,  put  up  her  hands  to  plait  it; 
but  she  got  no  further;  for  as  she  looked  at  the  glass  she 
realized  suddenly,  with  a  certain  crisping  of  her  skin,  a 
certain  shortening  of  her  breath,  that  not  only  was  she 
looking  at  herself,  but  that  herself  was  looking  at  her. 
It  moved  as  she  moved,  pursed  lips  with  her,  while  its 
hand  divided  the  rope  of  hair  into  three ;  yet  all  the  while 
it  stared  at  her  with  that  air  of  critical  comprehension 
that  looking-glass  faces  have,  and  its  thoughts,  underneath 
its  imitative  obedience,  shone  in  its  eyes  with  such  an  odd 
suggestion  of  menace  that  she  cried  out  to  it  at  last, 
aloud — 

"What  is  it?     Oh,  what  is  it?     I'm  afraid " 


Its  lips,  moving  quickly,  answered  even  while  she  spoke 
" — Of  yourself!     Actually  afraid  of  yourself.     You're 

afraid  to  be  yourself,  aren't  you?     Justin  mightn't  like 

it." 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  237 

She  watched  the  shamed,  conscious  flush  rise  and  die 
again  in  its  looking-glass  face. 

"I'm  quite  happy,"  she  said  to  it  defiantly. 

"Of  course!"  Its  narrowed  eyes  were  merciless.  "Of 
course.  It's  such  fun  humouring  Justin.  It's  so  easy  to 
give  in.  It's  such  a  pleasure  to  oil  the  wheels — to  be  al- 
ways exactly  what  he  wants,  where  he  wants,  and  when  he 
wants.  It's  the  delightfullest  slavery.  He  owns  you, 
doesn't  he?  and  you're  proud  of  it.  Well,  I  suppose  it's 
worth  while  to  you.  I'm  told  it's  a  most  voluptuous 
sensation. ' ' 

She  winced,  her  head  flung  up  in  outrage. 

"  I  'm  not  like  that.     Never  for  one  instant ! ' ' 

But  the  tilted,  scornful  looking-glass  face  said  only — 

"Never  for  one  instant?     Are  you  sure?" 

She  had  a  wild  gust  of  anger. 

"It's  not  fair.  We're  going  to  be  married.  It's  cruel 
of  Justin.  It  doesn't  happen  to  other  people  like  this. 
It  doesn't  happen  in  books.  There  was  Oliver — there's 

Robin  and  Annabel Why  should  we  be  different? 

Everywhere  people  love  each  other. ' '  Then,  with  a  whim- 
sical twist  of  her  thought:  "Well,  I  suppose  they're  satis- 
fied." 

"I  expect  they  are."  The  face  in  the  glass  had  also  its 
mocking  smile.  "They're  in  love,  you  see." 

' '  But  Justin 's  in  love ' ' 

"Is  he?"  asked  the  looking-glass. 

And  as  she  stared  into  those  reflected  eyes  she  saw  rising 
up  in  their  depths  as  if  they  were  not  eyes  but  pools  of 
memory,  a  gleam,  minute  and  exquisite  as  an  enamel,  of 
green  and  midday  blue,  and  a  patch  of  black  like  a  sloe- 
bush  and  its  scanty  shadow,  and  herself,  a  tiny  far-away 
self,  lying  under  it  listening  to  a  tiny  Justin  who  plucked 
at  the  thyme  and  the  golden  hawksbit  as  he  said — she 
heard  his  voice — 

"Marry  me — will  you?  Then  we  needn't  have  any  up- 
set." 


238  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

For  an  instant  the  old  bliss  held  her  again. 

"He  hasn't  grown  much,  has  he,  since  then?"  The 
looking-glass  could  mock  her  while  its  eyes  still  held  the 
vision. 

She  answered  sullenly — 

''What  does  it  matter?     I  like  him  this  way." 

"So  much,"  it  drawled,  "the  worse  for  Justin." 

' '  Can  I  help  that  ? ' '  She  struck  at  the  table  in  front  of 
her  so  that  the  brushes  clattered,  and  a  bottle  of  lavender 
tipped,  and  fell,  and  broke.  And  while  the  sweet,  domestic 
fume  of  it  filled  the  room  she  heard  the  instant,  inexorable 
comment — 

"What's  the  use  of  that?  What's  the  use  of  behaving 
like  a  child?" 

"Am  I  his  keeper?"  she  began  fiercely,  but  at  once,  with 
equal  violence,  it  over-rode  her — 

"Aren't  you?  Aren't  you?  Haven't  you  made  your 
plans?" 

Her  eyes  fell  before  the  completeness  of  its  contemptuous 
comprehension. 

Yes — she  had  made  her  plans.  .  .  .  She  knew — she  had 
always  known — that  she  could  marry  him,  content  him,  and 
find  her  own  happiness  in  doing  so.  ...  She  could  humour 
him :  aid  and  abet  him  in  his  harmless,  useless  enterprises : 
lap  him  in  little  lies  and  call  it  management.  .  .  .  The 
tyrannous  motherliness  that  is  in  every  woman  leaped 
within  her  at  the  idea.  Of  course  she  could  manage  Justin. 
.  .  .  They  would  lead  happy,  well-fed  lives.  .  .  .  They 
would  die  at  last,  placidly,  and  be  buried,  and  that  would 
be  the  end  of  them;  because  the  spirit  within  them  would 
have  been  stifled  long  ago.  .  .  . 

She  nodded  deliberately.  Yes,  she  could  do  that.  .  .  . 
She  knew  herself  capable  of  it.  ...  She  had  killed  one 
self  already — and  for  that,  too,  she  supposed,  she  was  now 
being  punished  ...  If  she  had  stayed  on  in  Paris,  learn- 
ing, growing,  acquiring  the  self-mastery  that  is  Art  and 
the  art  that  is  self -mastery,  she  would  have  come  back  to 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  239 

Brackenhurst  at  last,  full-grown,  self-possessing,  of  ac- 
count, good  enough  for  Justin,  the  right  woman  for  Jus- 
tin. .  .  . 

But  she  had  chosen  to  stultify  herself.  .  .  .  She  had 
sacrificed  self-respect,  common  sense,  common  honesty  some- 
times, to  what?  .  .  .  Not  even  to  Justin,  only  to  the  mean, 
selfish  fear  of  losing  him.  .  .  .  Not  love  but  fear  had  guided 
her  in  all  her  dealings.  .  .  .  She  had  wanted  him  for  her 
own,  her  very  own:  she  had  encouraged  every  tendency, 
every  fault,  that  would  bind  him  to  her.  .  .  .  How  unfair, 
how  cruelly  unfair,  she  had  been  to  Justin!  .  .  .  She  pre- 
tended to  love  him — she  did  love  him — but  when  had  she 
lifted  a  finger  to  help  him,  to  withstand  him,  as  every 
human  being  needs  to  be  withstood  by  those  who  love  him 
best?  No,  for  she  would  have  been  afraid — weakly,  self- 
ishly afraid  of  his  displeasure,  of  his  lack  of  comprehen- 
sion, of  putting  herself  in  a  position  that  he  could  mis- 
construe. Not  love — fear.  If  Justin  had  his  ways,  his 
little  faults — no,  she  would  be  honest  with  herself — the  big 
faults  that  were  sapping  his  whole  character,  she,  and  she 
alone,  was  to  blame.  .  .  . 

And  yet — the  unquenchable  hopefulness  of  her  tempera- 
ment stirred  within  her  like  a  sparrow  chirping  in  a  storm 
— couldn't  things  be  put  right,  even  now?  .  .  .  They  must 
get  out  of  their  groove.  .  .  .  They  must  help  each  other, 
she  and  Justin  .  .  .  When  two  people  loved  each  other 
— ah,  but  he  did  not  love  her!  That  was  the  reward  of 
her  folly.  .  .  .  He  did  not  love  her.  .  .  .  Her  days  rose 
up  before  her  as  if  she  were  a  drowning  woman,  as  indeed, 
in  a  sense,  she  was,  and  for  moments  of  an  agony  that  was 
almost  physical  she  clutched  at  this  incident  or  that — such 
a  look  as  he  had  once  given  her,  such  a  word  as  he  had  said 
— and  each  was  proved  a  straw.  Kind  he  was — her  friend, 
her  ally — not  her  lover.  .  .  .  He  had  never  been  her  lover. 
.  .  .  He  knew  nothing  of  love.  .  .  .  Yet  he  was  so  ignorant, 
so  pitifully  ignorant,  that  he  intended  to  marry  her,  to  live 
his  life  with  her  and  his  children,  and  his  comforts,  and  his 


240  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

collections :  and  he  would  never  know,  not  even  dimly  in 
a  dream,  that  something  had  died  within  him  unborn.  .  .  . 

"My  fault,"  she  whispered  to  herself.  "I  didn't  know. 
I  wouldn't  see.  He's  clogged.  It's  getting  worse  and 
worse.  He 's  like  the  deaf  adder  that  stoppeth  up  her  ears. 
And  yet  he's  still  Justin  inside.  I'll  never  believe  he's 
not  big  really.  And  if  I  marry  him " 

What  right  had  she  to  marry  him?  If  he  were  a  fool 
— oh,  she  cried  writhing — a  most  blind  and  bitter  fool — 
was  she  to  build  her  selfish  happiness  upon  his  blindness 
and  his  loss? 

She  turned  on  herself  again — 

"It's  my  fault.  It  was  my  chance.  He  was  given  to 
me.  I'm  the  unprofitable  servant,  and  from  him  shall  be 

taken  away It  has  been  taken  away.  He  doesn  't  love 

me.  I  haven't  been  able  to  teach  him.  I  didn't  know 
I  had  to.  I  thought — I  thought  he  must  too,  when  I  loved 
him  so.  I  've  been  blinder  than  Justin.  I  've  been  a  wicked 
fool." 

' '  But  to  break  with  Justin — what  good  would  it  do  ?  He 
wouldn't  care.  I  don't  count.  It  wouldn't  even  be  a 
shock." 

She  fingered  the  fringe  of  the  table-cover  as  she  glanced 
up  at  the  looking-glass,  furtively. 

"And  it's  a  shock  he  wants — a  shock He  wants 

tearing  up — by  the  roots "  Then  her  voice  rose. 

"Ah,  but  I  can't  hurt  him,"  she  cried  defiantly.  "I 
can't.  You  can't  make  me." 

The  eyes  in  the  glass  were  alive  with  passion. 

"If  it  isn't  you  it'll  be  some  one  else — some  beast  of  a 
woman  who  won't  care  how  she  hurts  him.  It's  got  to  be 
you." 

At  that  she  sprang  up  from  the  table  to  escape  the  in- 
tolerable domination.  But  everywhere  there  were  look- 
ing-glasses. She  turned  panic-stricken  from  herself  a  yard 
away  from  her  in  the  long  wardrobe,  to  the  mantelpiece 
reflecting  Dresden  figures  and  herself,  and,  caught  from 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  241 

the  wardrobe,  herself  again,  and  again,  and  yet  again,  in 
an  unending  reduplication  of  gay  dressing-gown  and  ashy 
face.  For  she  might  turn  where  she  would,  she  might 
crush  out  the  candle-flames,  and,  flung  down  upon  her  bed, 
cover  her  eyes  with  her  hair  and  her  desperate,  scorched 
hands;  but  she  could  not  escape  from  herself,  from  the 
inquisition  of  her  own  awakened  soul. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

IN  the  half  light  of  the  third  hour  she  rose,  freshened  her 
eyes  with  cold  water  and  crept  out  of  the  creaky  house  into 
the  grey  midsummer  world. 

The  birds  were  half  awake,  chirruping,  as  it  seemed  in 
that  stillness,  loud  and  shrill,  tuning  up  for  the  concert  that 
was  to  come ;  but  the  trees  had  still  their  motionless  carved 
night-look,  and  the  hedges  and  fields  were  as  fast  as  if  the 
thick  film  of  dew  spread  over  them  were  a  visible  spell. 

In  spite  of  the  burning  season  the  air  was  cold,  with  the 
dank  cold  of  the  smallest  hours,  when  virtue  goes  out  of 
beast  and  man  alike,  in  sleep  that  is  half  at  one  with  its 
exemplar  death. 

Laura,  fever-driven,  trailing  through  the  dust-white  grass 
that  edged  the  high-road,  wrenching  as  she  went,  with  a 
sort  of  aimless  cruelty,  at  the  dripping  tansy  heads  and 
trails  of  dewberries,  felt  the  flying  water-drops  soak 
through  her  thin  sleeves  and  spray  up  on  to  her  face,  and 
shivered  and  burned  again,  and  had  no  good  of  them.  Yet 
the  riot  within  her  was  dying  out :  her  mood  was  as  desolate 
as  the  hour.  She  had  ceased  fighting.  She  acknowledged 
her  duty:  was  set  (and  therein  lay  her  fever)  upon  doing 
it.  She  had  only  come  out  because  in  the  open  she  could 
breathe  more  easily,  think  more  clearly,  and  because  .  .  . 
because  .  .  .  (here,  if  she  had  been  speaking  aloud,  would 
have  come  the  high  note)  because  she  could  not  bear  her 
bedroom  any  longer.  But  it  was  not  because  she  doubted, 
was  questioning  her  duty.  That  was  settled.  That — she 
would  not  think  of  it — but  that  she  had  settled,  with  her- 
self, last  night.  But  that  inexorable  self  had  left  to  her 
own  decision  (because  she  knew  him  so  well — so  well)  how 
best  to  hurt  Justin — to  hurt  him. 

242 


FIRST  THE  BLADE 

And  so — let  us  sit  down,  oh,  my  thoughts,  not  masters 
any  more,  but  weary  servants  of  my  will,  and  discover  how 
best  we  may  hurt  Justin.  .  .  .  Because  it  is  to  do  him 
good — to  wake  him  up.  That  is  settled,  though.  ...  No 
need  to  go  into  that.  .  .  .  Some  need  though — if  only  to 
satisfy  rebellious  thoughts!  You  do  not  ask  a  woman  to 
tear  her  heart  out  of  her  body  for  honour  or  justice  or 

repentance'  sake But  if  it  be  for  Justin?  Let  us 

find  out  quickly,  before  we  grow  selfish  again,  what  will 
hurt  our  Justin.  .  .  .  Not  a  little  thing.  ...  A  big  thing. 
...  A  big  thing  to  him.  ...  A  thing  he  will  never  for- 
get— or  forgive.  .  .  . 

From  the  bend  of  the  road  a  pitter-pat  and  clatter  of 
wheels  warned  her  that  the  market  carts  would  be  passing, 
and  at  the  next  gate  she  turned  aside  into  the  fields  that 
fringed  the  Priory  woods. 

She  wandered  through  the  sleeping  corn,  following  the 
footways,  and  so  came  at  last  to  the  familiar  unregarded 
notice  boards  and  the  high  tarred  gate,  and  the  hurdles  that 
held  back  the  trees  as  a  rope  checks  the  straining  populace 
at  a  procession.  And  as  there  the  children  will  be  always 
slipping  under  it  and  out  into  the  cleared  way,  so  ever  and 
again  there  were  patches  of  polled  hazel  and  seedling  oak 
and  yard-high  bracken  running  out  into  the  no-man's-land 
between  the  hedgerow  and  the  plough. 

The  place  was  thick  with  ghostly  summer  flowers — mal- 
low, scarcely  visible,  foxglove  and  corncockle  and  knap- 
weed, bled  of  their  hearty  crimsons  by  the  vampire  night, 
and  all  the  little  pink  and  yellow  field  flowers,  dim  white 
as  the  huge  empty  sky  yawning  over  them. 

She  stood  a  moment  uncertainly  by  the  padlocked  gate, 
and  then,  with  a  vague  gesture,  waded  through  the  strip 
of  bracken  and,  sitting  down,  let  herself  sink  backward 
into  the  deeps  of  the  hedge.  The  foxgloves  and  the  sorrel 
swayed  and  shook  above  her  and  she  pulled  them  down  to 
her  for  their  freshness'  sake,  and  let  them  spring  free 
again,  and  then  lay  back  once  more,  her  lips  besmeared 


244  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

with  dew  and  pollen,  her  hands  clasped  under  her  head,  and 
watched  the  mists,  not  rising  from  the  earth  but  thinning 
and  vanishing  where  they  lay,  and  the  grey  surface  of  the 
corn  warming  to  bronze-tipped  green,  and  the  dawn-light 
spreading  like  a  smile  across  the  sky,  and  had  no  answering 
smile  for  it,  but  turned  where  she  lay,  stopping  her  ears 
against  the  riot  of  the  birds,  hiding  her  face  from  the  sun, 
and  at  last  falling,  for  very  weariness,  into  a  cramped,  un- 
easy drowse. 

It  was  roaring  day  without  a  dew-drop  left  in  the  open 
when  she  woke.  She  lay  a  moment  confused.  Vague 
thrills  ran  like  ants  up  and  down  her  body  and  soul,  and 
her  stupor  thinned  and  vanished  like  the  night  mists  two 
hours  before.  She  had  sunk  through  the  yielding  green 
stuff  and  her  body  had  pressed  so  heavily  against  the 
damp,  stony  earth  that  she  felt  as  if  she  were  clamped  to 
it.  Her  first  movement  set  her  shivering  with  pain  and 
cold.  Yet  her  linen  frock  was  bone  dry  where  the  sunshine 
had  beaten  down  on  it,  shiny  and  hot  to  the  touch.  Fern- 
flies  rose  buzzing  from  it  as  she  moved  stiffly  in  her  place. 

The  footsteps — she  realized  that  the  sound  of  footsteps 
had  awakened  her — drew  nearer.  A  labourer  going  to 
work?  She  pulled  a  fan  of  bracken  across  her  face.  Her 
frock  was  green  and  the  brishwood  high :  it  would  be  mere 
ill-luck  if  she  were  seen.  When  he  had  passed  she  would 
get  up  and  go  home,  out  of  the  glare.  One  could  not  think 
in  the  glare,  and  she  had  come  out  to  think  ...  to  think 
about  Justin  ...  to  plan — what  was  the  plan  ?  .  .  . 

She  put  her  cold  hand  to  her  head,  and  then  dropped 
it  again,  stiffening  where  she  lay.  She  knew  that  step, 
that  whistle.  Yet  what  should  Justin  do  here?  Unless — 
unless — could  he,  too,  have  had  his  sleepless  night?  .  .  . 

He  had  stopped  a  dozen  yards  away  from  her.  Through 
the  bracken  stalks  she  could  see  his  arrested  pose,  his  lifted 
head.  He  was  shading  his  eyes  with  his  hand,  listening  and 
staring  about  him. 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  24*5 

With  the  instant,  all-adapting  egoism  of  the  lover,  she 
arrived  at  the  only  explanation.  Something  had  happened. 
.  .  .  Some  word  of  hers  had  taken  root,  had  flowered  in  the 
night.  .  .  .  He  wanted  her.  .  .  .  He  had  come  to  find  her 
.  .  .  Things  were  going  to  be  all  right.  .  .  .  Why  not? 
Why  not?  .  .  . 

In  another  moment  she  would  have  been  on  her  feet, 
calling  to  him :  ' '  I  'm  here.  I  '11  get  it  for  you.  What  is 
it  you  want?"  But  before  she  could  scramble  to  her  feet 
he  had  nodded  to  himself,  and  walked  on  again,  and  she 
watched  him  climb  the  gate  and  disappear  among  the 
trees. 

What  a  fool  she  was.  ...  He  had  been  listening  to  a 
bird  in  the  wood.  .  .  .  He  was  out  nesting.  .  .  .  He  had 
said  only  yesterday  that  he  wanted  more  blackcap  eggs. 
.  .  .  She  jerked  herself  to  her  knees  and  listened.  She 
could  hear  him  moving  in  the  undergrowth  and  the  serene 
outpouring  change  to  short,  sharp  cheepings,  to  the  agon- 
ized danger  note. 

He  was  in  luck.  .  .  . 

"Krek!     Krek!     Krek-krek!" 

She  wished  he  wouldn  't.     It  was  beastly.  .  .  . 

With  sudden  decision  she  rose  to  her  feet  and  moved 
noiselessly  and  hurriedly  down  the  path.  She  would  get 
away  while  she  could.  .  .  .  He  might  be  strolling  back 
at  any  moment  with  the  warm  eggs  in  his  hand.  .  .  .  There 
would  be  the  blow-pipe  and  the  mess  of  yolk  to  follow.  .  .  . 
And  he  would  go  home  at  last  looking  perfectly  satisfied. 
.  .  .  Why  not?  Didn't  he  care  more  for  his  wretched  eggs 
than  for  anything  on  God 's  earth  ?  Of  course !  And  that 
was  why  Coral  had  said 

Here  for  an  instant  her  mind  stood  rigid  for  the  old  or- 
der. Then  her  thoughts,  like  waters  when  the  dam  breaks, 
overwhelmed  it,  came  rushing  and  tumbling  over  each 
other,  sweeping  away  the  last  remnants  of  opposition. 

And  that  was  why — and  that  was  why  she  was  going  up 


246  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

to  the  Priory  that  very  morning — up  to  his  den — to  smash 
up  his  old  eggs !  That  would  wake  him  up !  Smash  up  his 
old  eggs — that  would  wake  him  up !  That  would  wake  him 
up!  ... 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

grow.     We  acquire.    Do  we  change? 

We  talk  of  the  formation  of  character,  as  if  character 
were  not  already  triumphant  in  the  infant  that  defies  its 
father  and  seduces  its  grandmother  months  before  it  can 
speak.  We  talk  of  character — but  do  we  not  mean  habit? 
Daily,  weekly,  yearly,  we  add  to  our  habits,  literally  our 
habits,  our  garments,  the  Joseph-coats  of  manner  and  cus- 
tom, of  tolerance  and  caution  and  indifference,  in  which  we 
clothe  and  conceal  ourselves,  our  unchanging,  unchange- 
able selves,  old  as  age,  young  as  youth,  sexless,  amoral,  un- 
convinced by  human  logic,  unbound  by  human  laws. 

And  for  years  we — I,  with  a  hole  in  my  stocking,  and 
you,  Collaborator,  incapable  of  any  such  thing,  and  Martha 
in  the  kitchen,  and  the  Kaiser  at  Potsdam,  train  up  our- 
selves in  the  way  we  should  go  and  criticize  our  neighbours ' 
departure  therefrom  without  a  thought  for  our  sleeping 
partner,  biding  his  time  within  us.  But  when  his  time 
comes,  in  emergency,  in  crisis,  then,  as  sure  as  you  sit  there 
knitting,  Collaborator,  that  original  self  wakes  up,  with  a 
rending  of  garments,  and  takes  charge.  But,  when  the 
occasion  is  over  and  it  has  sunk  to  sleep  again,  it  is  we — 
our  bewildered,  protesting  surface  selves  who  have  to  take 
the  consequences.  That  explains,  I  imagine,  why  it  is  al- 
ways the  most  unlikely  people  who  behave  in  the  most 
incongruous  way,  and  why  John  Smith  (condemn  him  or 
admire  him  as  we  may)  remains  the  last  person  we  should 
have  expected  to  murder  his  great-uncle  or  marry  the 
princess,  or  why  Laura  Valentine,  who  loved  Justin  more 
deeply  than  even  his  mother  did  (I  cannot  put  it  higher) 
and  had  a  fine  sense  of  humour  of  her  own,  should  yet  be 
setting  out  at  ten  o'clock  of  the  morning  of  the  last  Suu- 

247 


248  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

day  in  June,  convinced  that  by  the  smashing  of  his  birds' 
eggs  she  would  save  his  soul  alive,  and  that  there  was  noth- 
ing ridiculous  in  the  situation. 

As  she  walked,  she  argued  it  out  with  him,  the  old  im- 
aginary Justin,  in  the  old  childish  way.  It  was  long  since 
she  had  had  him  at  her  side.  Her  common  sense  had  rec- 
ognized the  danger  of  such  make-believe,  the  folly  of  using 
her  mind  as  a  mere  play-house  in  which  her  thoughts  were 
actors,  rehearsing  each  coming  event  with  such  richness 
of  setting,  such  significance  of  detail,  such  completeness 
of  result,  that,  in  comparison,  the  reality  must  always 
disappoint  her.  She  had  conquered,  she  believed  that 
she  had  at  last  conquered  the  tendency,  and  prided  her- 
self a  little  on  the  effort ;  for  it  had  been  surprisingly  diffi- 
cult. Laura,  arm-in-arm  with  Nemesis,  did  not  for  one 
instant  recognize  her  companion,  did  not  guess  that  the  old 
creative  instinct  that  she  had  so  conscientiously  scotched 
a  year  before  was  not,  was  never  killed,  that  if  growth  were 
denied  it  in  one  art  it  would  be  bound  to  appear  in  an- 
other, and  again  and  again  denied  its  body,  would  find  a 
ghost-life  in  her  very  dreams.  Dear  Laura  was  merely 
pleased  with  herself  because,  as  Justin  would  have  wished 
her  to  do,  she  had  put  an  end  to  childish  things,  such  as 
telling  herself  stories  when  she  went  to  bed,  deciding  the 
colour  of  her  eldest  grandson's  eyes,  and  talking  to  Justin 
when  he  was  not  there. 

But,  as  I  say,  she  had  reckoned  without  her  sleeping 
partner.  On  that  June  morning  she  walked  the  long  mile 
between  Green  Gates  and  the  Priory,  unregenerate,  a 
recusant,  lips  moving,  eyes  eloquent,  rehearsing  an  or- 
deal, haranguing  Justin. 

He  would  be  angry — violently  angry.  She  conceived 
her  act,  envisaged  its  consequences,  nor  lost  her  head  when 
the  explosion  came.  She  was  face  to  face  with  the  anger 
of  Justin  and  was  able  to  ignore  it.  She  argued:  she 
overbore  him:  for  once  she  let  herself  go.  She  had  no 
need  to  stumble  for  words :  the  stinging  phrases  jostled  fop 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  249 

precedence  upon  her  lips.  She  ranged  her  charges,  calling 
this  and  that  incident  in  witness:  held  up  to  ridicule  his 
lethargy,  his  complacency,  his  lack  of  purpose.  Her  pas- 
sion rose,  she  convinced  herself  anew,  as  she  sorted  her 
sentences,  flung  her  taunts. 

She  told  him  that  his  collection  typified  his  attitude  to 
life  and,  therefore,  though  it  had  been  priceless,  irreplace- 
able, instead  of  the  trumpery  it  was,  she  would  have  de- 
stroyed it  just  the  same.  He  asked  her  how  she  dared 
stand  there — ?  (Justin's  few  contributions  to  the  dis- 
cussion strike  one  as  having  a  distinctly  feminine  flavour) 
how  she  dared — and  she  told  him  that  she  dared  anything 
where  he  was  concerned;  that  she  knew  what  she  was 
doing,  what  she  was  risking,  what  she  was  losing ;  but  that 
he  should  not  make  himself  a  laughing-stock  if  she  could 
help  it ;  that  if  he  could  not  see  that  he  was  making  himself 
a  laughing-stock,  she  did — she  did ! 

She  was  furiously  rude  to  him ;  she 

She  began  all  over  again. 

They  sat  that  time.  There  was  no  striding  about  the 
room  and  hammering  of  fists  upon  the  table ;  rather  a  state- 
ment of  fact,  an  icy  exchange  of  view.  There  was  cut  and 
thrust  and  cut  again,  and  to  her  sore,  secret  triumph  a 
Justin  awake  at  last,  revealing  strength,  subtlety,  decision, 
justifying  her  unconsciously  in  every  estranging  phrase. 
But  human  nature  turned  from  such  triumph. 

She  began  again,  weakly,  sparing  herself. 

A  miracle  happened.  She  talked  to  him  and  he  under- 
stood. He  was  kind.  He  was  fine.  He  forgave  her.  He 
laughed  at  her  and  said  she  mattered  more  to  him  than  a 
million  birds '  eggs.  And  so  they  talked  things  out,  friends 
still,  watching  their  good  future  rise  amid  those  scattered, 
foolish  shells. 

She  began  again  and  broke  off,  and  began  again  and  yet 
again. 

She  was  still  defying  and  defending  and  accusing  and 
convincing  him  when  she  reached  the  Priory's  open  door, 


250  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

and,  noiseless  and  unseen,  slipped  up  the  stairs  and  along 
the  panelled  corridor  to  Justin's  room. 

It  was  empty.  He  had  asked  her  to  meet  him  there  at 
noon  and  it  was  barely  eleven  o'clock.  She  had  plenty  of 
time. 

She  began  her  invariable  little  tour  of  inspection.  He 
had  left  his  slippers  as  usual,  toe  to  heel,  in  the  middle  of 
the  floor:  and  the  ash-tray  stank.  She  knocked  it  out 
against  the  window-sill  and  the  wind  caught  the  ashes  and 
dusted  them  back  in  her  face.  She  had  to  trim  herself  in 
the  fire-place  tiles — there  was  no  looking-glass — before  she 
put  back  the  tray  and  ranged  the  pipes  in  the  rack  and 
shook  up  the  squashed  cushions  of  Justin's  chair — all  this 
with  a  grim  little  smile.  She  loved  his  hopeless  ways. 

Bot  the  table  was  neat,  set  out  with  that  extreme  care 
which  is  the  effect  of  a  hobby  on  the  untidiest  of  men. 
The  books  of  reference  were  stacked  in  two  piles,  one  for 
him  and  one  for  her.  He  had  paste  and  photographs  and 
scissors,  and  on  the  floor  beside  his  chair  an  empty  drawer 
and  a  roll  of  cotton-wool.  She  had  pen  and  ink,  and  his 
beautifully  bound  private  catalogue  with  the  thick,  lined 
paper  and  blank  interleaves  for  illustrations.  Between 
them  was  the  cardboard  box  with  the  eggs  they  had  not  as 
yet  classified  and  put  away. 

She  thought He's  enjoyed  himself  getting  things 

ready!  .  .  . 

She  drew  the  box  towards  her  and  stirred  her  hand 
round  among  the  eggs ;  then,  lifting  a  handful,  poured  them 
idly  from  one  palm  to  the  other.  They  rattled  faintly 
like  a  woman's  high  heels  tapping  along  the  pavement. 

She  weighed  them  up  and  down.  They  were  as  light — 
as  light  as  love.  .  .  .  Deliberately  she  let  them  shower 
through  her  fingers  on  to  the  floor.  But  the  carpet  was 
thick  and  they  took  no  harm. 

Then,  as  if  in  spite  of  herself,  she  put  out  her  foot  and 
crushed  them  where  they  lay. 

She  stood   a  moment,   slurring  her  shoe  to   and   fro, 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  251 

mechanically,  to  free  it  from  the  crumbs  of  shell,  and  then 
turned  to  the  cabinet  between  the  window  and  the  door. 
That  came  next.  ...  If  you  began  a  job,  you  must  finish 
it.  ... 

She  pulled  open  the  doors  one  by  one,  sliding  out  the 
glass,  and  ran  her  hand  from  hollow  to  hollow  in  the  cotton- 
wool. A  pressure  was  enough  for  the  smooth,  frail  eggs 
of  the  finches  and  the  tits.  They  crumpled  like  hare-bells. 
For  the  bigger  specimens  she  had  to  use  both  hands.  They 
would  not  break  unless  she  held  them  sideways,  and  then 
they  cracked  sharply,  scratching  her  palms. 

The  business  was  soon  done.  She  left  the  cabinet  open 
and  awry,  and  sat  down  in  the  window-seat. 

After  a  pause  she  discovered  that  she  was  breathing 
again. 

But  before  her  mind  had  time  to  consider  that  phe- 
nomenon it  was  distracted  by  another.  There  was  a  sound, 
immense,  insistent — sound  of  an  earth  rhythmically  con- 
vulsed— sound  as  of  an  army,  an  army  with  banners, 
marching  upon  her  to  the  eternal,  infernal  repetition  of 
the  drums,  drawing  nearer,  entering  definitely  into  her,  and 
resolving  itself  at  last  into  the  throb  of  her  own  pulses, 
into  the  beating  of  her  own  heart,  obsessed  by  the  guilty, 
idiotic  terror  of  nightmare  itself. 

'  Nightmare ! '  The  recognition  of  the  word,  of  the  state, 
brought  relief.  'Nightmare!'  .  .  . 

"Justin — I  have  broken "  That  was  the  sort  of 

thing  one  did  in  nightmare,  just  before  one  woke.  .  .  .  But 
one  always  woke.  .  .  .  She  herself  would  be  waking  in  a 
moment  with  a  gasp  of  relief.  .  .  .  "Not  true!  I  never 
did  it!  A  dream!"  And  she  would  open  her  eyes  and 
see  the  blessed  sunshine  filtering  through  the  blinds,  and 
hear  the  birds  bickering  in  the  roses,  and  so  turn  on  her 
pillow  and  drowse  till  breakfast  time.  Not  true!  Thank 
God  that  even  in  nightmare  one  always  knew  that  it  was 
not  true,  although  one  were  looking  at  Justin's  cabinet 
and  the  door  stood  wide.  .  .  If  Justin  came  in  .  .at 


252  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

any  moment  he  might  come  ...  he  would  wonder  why 
...  he  would  discover  .  .  . 

In  an  instant  she  was  across  the  room,  thrusting  back 
the  long  drawers  one  after  another  with  hands  that  shook. 
Her  haste  made  her  clumsy.  The  wook  stuck  and  squeaked 
and  the  handles  jingled  so  loudly  that  it  was  impossible  that 
Justin  should  not  hear  them  out  in  the  woods  and  come 
quickly  and  catch  her  in  the  act. 

She  managed  them  at  last,  closed  the  doors  and  turned 
the  key  and  stood  leaning  against  them,  breathing  quickly 
as  though  she  had  been  running. 

At  least  it  would  give  her  a  pause,  a  moment's  pause  be- 
fore discovery,  in  which  to — wake  up.  She  tried  to  laugh. 
The  collection  was  all  right  really — quite  all  right.  .  .  . 
That  was  why  there  was  really  no  use  in  waiting  for  Jus- 
tin. .  .  .  What  if  she  went  away  quietly,  at  once,  on  tip- 
toe? .  .  .  Nobody  had  seen  her  come.  .  .  .  Nobody  would 
ever  guess  that  she  had  touched  anything.  .  .  .  She  was  the 
last  person  who  would  be  suspected.  .  .  .  The  cat  ...  a 
careless  maid  .  .  .  some  one  who  owed  Justin  a  grudge.  .  . 
There  would  be  talk  and  marvelling.  .  .  .  Justin  would 
rage.  .  .  .  But  they  would  never  find  out.  .  .  . 

Besides,  it  was  only  nightmare.  .  .  .  She  would  have 
waked  before  they  suspected.  .  .  . 

What  was  that?  That  creaking  stair?  Justin?  Not 
Justin  ?  .  .  .  Her  feet  had  already  carried  her  to  the  door, 
but  at  that  sound  she  slipped  back  into  her  chair,  white, 
speechless,  waiting.  But  it  was  only  the  maid,  restoring  a 
waste-paper  basket. 

She  was  instantly  Miss  Valentine,  controlled,  smiling. 

"Thank  you,  Mary.     Oh,  Mary,  is  Mr.  Justin  in?" 

The  maid  thought  so,  Miss — had  seen  him  crossing  the 
lawn  just  now :  and  so  departed,  shutting  the  door,  fasten- 
ing the  cage,  upon  a  trapped  creature.  No  escape  now! 
.  .  .  The  maid  had  seen  her,  sitting  in  Justin's  room.  .  .  . 
No  chance  of  an  alibi.  .  .  .  Besides,  Justin  might  come  up 
at  any  moment  now.  .  .  . 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  253 

She  sat  a  long  while,  waiting  for  him  to  come. 

She  was  asked  once — how  long?  an  hour?  half  an  hour? 

ten  minutes?  She  said  painfully She  didn't  know. 

A  long  while. 

But  if  you  consider  that  Justin  had  appointed  twelve 
o'clock,  that  he  was  a  punctual  man,  and  that  he  came 
in  at  last  mopping  his  forehead  and  complaining  of  the 
noon  heat,  it  cannot  have  been  long.  Half  an  hour, 
perhaps?  Yet  she  had  sat  so  still  that  when  he  came 
her  cramped  limbs  at  first  refused  to  stir,  and  she 
stayed  where  she  was,  helplessly,  staring  at  him,  till  he, 
missing  the  greeting  and  the  bustle  that  was  his  due,  turned 
to  her  with  a  vague  notion  that  something  must  be 
wrong. 

"Why,  Laura,  what's  up?"  And  then,  "My  dear  girl, 
you  do  look  white!  But  this  heat's  enough  to  knock  up 
any  one."  And  so  disposed  of  his  concern  and  turned  to 
his  prepared  table,  while  she  sought  for  an  answer  and 
found  none  upon  her  lips  save  the  forgotten,  petulant  re- 
tort of  her  childhood. 

"I'm — not — your  dear  girl!" 

But  there  was  neither  petulance  nor  childishness  in  her 
voice  as  she  said  it,  rather  an  intonation  of  such  hopeless- 
ness, such  despair,  that  Justin  must  have  guessed  at  worse 
trouble  than  the  heat,  had  he  not  been  talking  too  fast  on 
his  own  account  to  catch  a  word. 

"Now  then — let's  get  to  work.  But  the  eggs?  Where's 
the  box  of  eggs?  Why,  Laura,  you've  cleared  away  the 
eggs!  Did  you  sort  them?  I  never  told  you  to.  Did 
you  put  them  in  the  cabinet  ? ' ' 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Where  then?" 

Still  she  did  not  speak.  She  was  making  the  discovery 
that  she  had  lost  control  of  her  voice,  of  the  muscles  of 
her  throat.  She  swallowed  once  or  twice.  She  said,  her 
will  said,  two  and  three  and  four  times,  ' '  They  are  broken. 
I  broke  them,"  but  she  made  no  sound  at  all.  The  sensa- 


254.  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

tion  was  a  horrible  one.  It  confirmed,  with  its  physical 
reality,  the  paralysis  of  her  spirit. 

Justin,  watching  her,  guessed  distortedly  at  the  truth. 

"There's  been  an  accident?" 

You  could  not  say  that  she  shook  her  head,  but  she  moved 
it  stiffly,  once,  a  very  little. 

"Laura?  Not  smashed?"  His  face  was  tragic.  "Not 
smashed,  Laura?  How  many?  Which  ones?  Not  the 
whole  lot?" 

Again  she  opened  and  shut  her  mouth. 

He  was  at  the  cabinet. 

' '  Where 's  the  key  ?  What  have  you  done  with  the  key  ? ' ' 
And  then,  with  palpable  effort — "Don't  be  scared,  Laura. 
I  know  you  couldn  't  help  it.  But  what  happened  ? ' ' 

His  generosity  cut  like  a  knife.  As  suddenly  as  it  had 
descended  upon  her  the  dumbness  passed  away.  Her 
tongue  was  loosened.  She  heard  her  voice,  her  high,  shak- 
ing voice,  entirely  independent  of  her,  yet  still  her  own 
voice — 

"I  did  it,"  said  Laura's  voice,  "I — I  did  it  on  purpose." 

"What?"  He  wheeled,  staring,  while  within  her  mind 
she  implored  this  voice  of  hers  to  go  on,  to  tell  Justin,  to 
make  Justin  understand.  And  at  last  it  did  say — 

"I  had  to,  Justin.    Justin — I  had  to." 

He  took  a  step  towards  her.  There  was  a  new  and 
dangerous  light  in  his  eyes. 

"Are  you  mad?  What  do  you  mean?  Are  you  quite 
mad?" 

She  considered. 

"I  had  to."    Her  voice  was  growing  easier  to  manage. 

"Will  you  tell  me  why?" 

Her  moment  was  come.  Now  she  must  loose  her  light- 
nings, launch  her  thunderbolts,  harangue,  arraign,  con- 
vince, convict  him,  overwhelming  him  with  unanswerable 
truths.  She  must  take  the  chance  that  had  come  to  her. 
Whitening,  she  drew  breath  and  spoke — 

"I — I  had  to,"  said  Laura. 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  255 

''Where — ?"  he  began,  then  his  eyes,  following  hers, 
caught  sight  of  the  mess  of  shell  that  littered  the  floor  and 
he  lost  control.  He  was  flushed,  darkly,  like  a  drinker. 
The  natural  man  emerged  in  a  quick,  furnious  staccato  of 
unintelligible  words.  A  wave  of  terrified  laughter  swept 
over  her  as  she  listened. 

So  that's  swearing!  ...  So  he  can  swear,  Coral!  You 

see,  he  can.  .  .  .  And  then It's  like  a  cat — like  a 

tom-cat!  It's  comical!  It's  horrible!  It  makes  one  sick ! 
Stop!  Oh,  Justin,  stop!  .  .  .  She  was  clutching  at  the 
arms  of  her  chair. 

But  it  was  all  over  in  an  instant.  Before  she  realized 
what  was  happening  she  found  him  towering  over  her,  the 
Justin  of  a  nightmare,  huge  and  hazy,  with  glittering  eyes. 

He  was  speaking  to  her. 

"Will  you  go  away,  please?" 

"Justin!"  she  implored  him. 

"Will  you  go  away,  please?" 

She  resisted,  roused  at  last,  eloquent  at  last,  fighting 
desperately — 

' '  Justin !  I  must  tell  you Justin !  Wait !  Listen ! 

Just  a  minute Justin ! ' ' 

But  he  took  her  lightly  by  the  arm,  and  in  a  moment 
she  was  in  the  passage,  and  he  had  shut  the  door  against 
her. 

She  went  shaking  and  stumbling  down  the  staircase  and 
out  into  the  sunshine. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

IT  seems  to  be  a  fact  that  love,  like  the  camel,  can  live 
on  its  own  resources  for  a  length  of  time  that  amazes  the 
less  fantastic  and  incalculable  rest  of  creation;  but  it  is 
equally  certain  and  a  great  deal  more  comprehensible  that 
months  of  strain,  followed  by  a  spell  of  hot  weather,  salad 
and  strawberries,  nervous  excitement,  sleepless  nights  and 
a  climax  of  elemental  emotion,  have  sooner  or  later  to  be 
paid  for;  that,  soothing  as  it  may  be  to  the  soul  to  lie  for 
three  hours  in  a  damp  ditch  without  changing  afterwards, 
it  is  distinctly  bad  for  the  body;  and  finally,  that  only  a 
lover  or  a  camel  (there  is  certainly  a  likeness  between  them 
in  more  ways  than  one)  could  be  surprised  if  at  last  even 
their  strength  goes  from  them,  and  they  give  their  relations 
or  their  driver  a  deal  of  unnecessary  trouble. 

Laura,  developing,  for  no  reason  that  Aunt  Adela  could 
conceive,  a  feverish  cold,  dragged  about  the  house  for  a 
week,  refusing  to  go  beyond  the  garden,  saying  how  much 
better  she  would  be  in  a  day  or  two,  and  then  collapsed. 
Once  in  bed  she  found  herself  suddenly  too  weak  and  ill 
to  struggle  with  the  kindly,  overbearing  Samsons  who  kept 
her  there,  and  by  the  end  of  the  day  the  very  knowledge 
of  them  had  passed,  swamped,  with  the  memory  of  the 
past  and  the  fear  of  the  future,  in  the  present  mercy  of 
bodily  pain. 

From  that  timeless  interval  she  woke  one  day  to  the  real- 
ization of  a  darkened  room  and  a  clock  ticking,  and  a  calen- 
dar on  the  wall  with  'twenty-five'  in  staring,  black  figures 
and  July  above  it,  and  below  a  verse,  and  below  that  again 
a  table  with  bottles  and  a  cup.  She  recognized  them  at 
once — bottles  and  a  cup  and  a  table  and  a  calendar,  a 

calendar  and  a  table Why  had  somebody  said  some- 

256 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  257 

thing  just  now  about  Laura  being  delirious?  .  .  .  Poor 
Laura!  .  .  .  saying  cruel  things  like  that  about  poor 
Laura.  .  .  .  She  was  sorry  for  that  poor  girl.  .  .  . 

And  here  she  began  to  laugh  aloud,  weakly,  because  she 
was  Laura  herself,  lying  on  her  own  bed,  able  to  move  and 
speak,  though  the  bedclothes  were  a  weight  unbearable 
and  there  was  a  weight  like  bedclothes  on  her  mind. 

She  looked  up  at  an  aunt  appearing  miraculously  out  of 
space. 

' '  I  'm  Laura ! ' '  she  told  her. 

"Of  course  you  are.  Now  be  a  good  girl  and  go  to 
sleep. ' ' 

"Poor  Laura,"  she  said — and  obeyed. 

After  that  she  began  to  mend,  yet  so  slowly  that  the 
doctor  was  puzzled.  Day  ate  up  day  and  still  she  lay 
passive,  taking  her  medicines,  doing  as  she  was  told,  with- 
out wishes,  almost  without  words,  but  listening  with  grave, 
uncomprehending  attention  to  Aunt  Adela,  under  orders 
to  amuse,  to  rouse  if  she  could,  but  not  to  excite  the  in- 
valid. Aunt  Adela,  in  undisputed  command  of  Laura  and 
the  situation,  now  that  the  nurse  was  gone,  enjoyed  her- 
self. She  was  conscientious,  she  was  well-meaning :  she  sat 
by  the  hour  at  Laura's  bedside  in  a  basket  chair  that 
creaked  as  she  turned  the  pages,  reading  her  items  of  in- 
terest from  the  paper  (nothing  exciting,  of  course — oh,  the 
doctor  might  depend  on  her)  and  stories  and  poems  from 
the  parish  magazine:  and  would  break  off  in  the  middle 
with  chit-chat  of  the  village,  with  the  news  that  the  new 
curate  had  preached  last  Sunday,  and  that  Annabel  Moulde 
had  called  to  enquire  after  Laura.  But  every  one  enquired 
regularly — most  kind — because,  of  course,  it  was  an  ex- 
traordinary thing  to  get  pneumonia  in  such  weather,  and, 
as  she  had  told  Annabel  only  that  morning,  she  hoped  it 
would  be  a  warning  to  her  never  to  be  without  wool  next 
her  skin,  even  in  the  height  of  summer.  Mrs.  Cloud  had 
said  the  same  thing.  Yes,  she  had  called  before  she  went 
to  the  sea — oh,  about  a  month  ago  now,  Justin  had  gone  on 


258  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

ahead,  if  Laura  remembered — but  Laura  was  looking  so 
white  that  she  was  sure  it  was  time  for  her  tonic,  and  how 
often  had  she  told  Laura  that  she  must  try  and  not  talk  so 
much? 

Laura  thought  feebly  how  kind  she  was,  and  how  like 
the  bluebottle  buzzing  on  the  pane. 

But  as  July  blazed  over  into  August,  Laura  noticed,  with 
the  same  trance-like  impersonal  interest  in  the  phenomenon, 
that  Aunt  Adela's  manner  was  changing.  She  looked 
worried,  yet  greatly  excited.  She  could  not  be  talking  ten 
minutes  without  pulling  herself  up  short.  She  was  always 
changing  the  subject  for  no  reason  that  Laura  could  dis- 
cern, for  ever  verging  on  tremendous  revelations  and  for 
ever  thinking  better  of  it.  She  talked  more  than  usual, 
too,  of  the  twins  and  of  how  young  they  were,  thank  God 
— no,  Laura,  not  eighteen,  seventeen  and  nine  months — 
and  of  the  need  for  a  good  supply  of  tinned  foods  in  the 
house,  and  of  how  much  she  had  always  admired  Sir  Ed- 
ward Grey. 

Laura,  promising  not  to  excite  herself  by  talking  to  Ellen, 
when  Ellen,  obviously  also  under  orders,  dusted  the  room, 
did  not  even  shrug  a  shoulder.  Aunt  Adela  had  always 
loved  making  a  mystery.  She  was  not  curious.  She  had 
her  own  mystery  to  occupy  her,  the  mystery  of  the  dead 
weight  upon  her  mind  that  was  connected  with  the  names 
that  were  for  ever  on  Aunt  Adela's  tongue — Justin — Mrs. 
Cloud — familiar  names  that  hurt  her  to  hear  spoken.  It 
was  not  that  she  had  really  forgotten  things,  of  course  .  .  . 
but  for  the  moment,  only  for  the  moment,  the  precise  sig- 
nificance of  certain  far-away  actions  of  her  own  had  evaded 
her,  as  well  as  the  exact  relation  to  herself  of  this  Justin. 
.  .  .  Justin — and  Mrs.  Cloud — who  was — who,  of  course, 
was  Justin's  mother.  .  .  .  Now  Justin — now  she  and  Jus- 
tin. .  .  .  But  it  hurt  her  head  to  remember  all  that  she 
knew  about  Justin. 

But  one  morning  Aunt  Adela,  called  out  of  the  room  to 
entertain  callers — morning  calls  had  never  quite  gone  out  of 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  259 

fashion  in  Brackenhurst — left  the  paper  she  was  reading 
flung  down  upon  the  bed,  and  Laura's  eye  was  caught  by 
such  enormous  headlines  as  she  had  never  seen  before, 
headlines  that  blared  through  the  room  like  trumpets. 
England — she  turned  sideways  that  the  paper  might  catch 
the  light — England  was  at  war.  England  had  been  at  war 
three  days. 

War  ?  In  the  egotism  of  her  weakness  it  seemed  a  trifling 
thing.  War  .  .  .  war.  .  .  .  There  had  been  the  Boer  War 
too.  .  .  .  She  dropped  the  paper  indifferently. 

But  a  thought,  not  of  the  unrealized  present,  but  of  that 
dreamlike  far  past,  remained  with  her,  stirring  her  mind 
to  exertion. 

The  Boer  War.  .  .  .  She  could  just  remember  the  red- 
white-and-blue  ribbons  in  shops  and  the  picture  buttons  of 
Redvers  Buller,  and  Sir  George  White,  and  Kitchener, 
that  she  used  to  buy  with  her  pennies.  Father — that 
shadow  of  a  shadow — had  been  killed  in  the  Boer  War. 
.  .  .  He  had  left  his  business  to  volunteer  .  .  .  that  was 
why  they  were  poor.  .  .  .  She  remembered — and  the  mem- 
ory stabbed  like  a  sudden  light  in  a  dark  room — the  beady 
rasp  of  carpet  against  her  bare  knees  as  she  twisted  round 
from  her  dolls'  house  at  the  sound  of  voices,  at  her  Aunt 
Adela's  voice — 

''Pure  selfishness  in  a  married  man,  I  call  it — though 
he  is  my  brother.  What's  the  army  for?"  And  then — 
not  her  mother's  answer,  but  her  mother's  soft,  angry,  beau- 
tiful face.  .  .  . 

It  was  like  Aunt  Adela  not  to  realize  that  decent  men 
were  bound  to  volunteer  when  there  was  a  war  on,  like  the 
Boer  War.  .  .  .  The  Great  War  by  Conan  Doyle.  .  .  .  She 
had  the  book  somewhere  ...  it  had  lasted  three  years — 
that  great  war.  ...  Of  course,  this  business 

She  picked  up  the  paper  again  and  began  to  read. 

And  as  she  read,  those  overworked,  willing  servants  the 
body  and  the  brain  of  the  body,  roused  themselves,  as  in 
crisis  they  always  do,  to  meet  the  demands  of  the  shocked 


260  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

spirit.  She  felt  the  clogging  weakness  drawing  away  from 
her  as  a  cloud  draws  away  from  a  hill-side.  She  turned 
from  a  remembered  past  that  had  seemed  the  extreme  of 
trouble  to  a  future  that  made  that  past  a  childish  thing. 

War.  .  .  . 

Deliberately  she  put  aside  the  emotions  that  she  owed 
the  event.  'England,'  'Right,'  'Wrong,'  'Victory,'  'Sac- 
rifice/ 'Our  Fleet' — these  were  words  that  could  wait:  it 
was  first  necessary  to  comprehend  its  personal  significance. 
This  war  meant — it  meant  danger :  and  before  this  danger, 
she  saw  already,  one  would  be  helpless :  between  this  danger 
and  Justin  one  would  not  be  able  to  interpose  body  or  soul. 
.  .  .  This — she  tried  to  be  very  clear — this  was  war — man 's 
war — a  dragon  from  the  fairy  tales  come  to  overwhelming, 
incredible  flesh  and  blood  life.  ...  It  was  a  week  old  and 
already  it  was  clamouring  for  its  food.  .  .  .  'Your  King 
and  Country  want  you.'  .  .  .  Father  had  volunteered — 
all  decent  men  had  to  volunteer — always — in  a  war.  .  .  . 
So  Justin  ...  if  Justin  .  .  .  but  surely  Justin  wouldn't 
have  to  go?  At  any  rate,  not  for  months  and  months. 
.  .  .  Why  should  Justin  go?  the  only  son  of  his  mother. 
.  .  .  Justin  would  surely  understand  that  it  was  not  his 
duty  .  .  .  not  yet  anyhow.  ...  He  could  do  things  at 
home.  .  .  .  No  need — no  need.  .  .  .  But  if  Justin  went. 
.  .  .  All  decent  men  went.  .  .  .  He  would  go — he  would 

go — he  would  go  in  spite  of  all she  would  have  to  watch 

him  go.  ...  And  there  were  more  ways  than  one,  it 
seemed,  of  losing  Justin.  .  .  . 

She  turned  on  her  pillow  and  abandoned  herself  to 
terror — a  terror  beyond  the  decencies.  She  was  wrenched 
and  torn  with  weeping,  frantic  in  her  fear  for  him.  He 
might  suffer  .  .  .  He  might  be  exposed  to  bodily  torture. 
.  .  .  He  might  die  ...  be  gone  from  her  for  ever — for 
ever — like  a  candle  blown  out.  ...  In  six  months — in 
three  months — there  might  be  no  Justin — anywhere — any 
more:  . 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  261 

And  at  that  she  bit  and  tore  at  her  wrist  lest  she  should 
scream  aloud. 

It  was  a  madness  that  spent  itself  at  last,  as  such  things 
must,  leaving  her  sane  and  heavy-eyed  and  ashamed.  And 
in  that  desolate  lull  she  could  hear  the  voice,  cold,  dis- 
loyal, of  another  subtler  fear — 

Suppose — suppose  he  did  not  go  ?  ... 

When  Aunt  Adela  came  back  an  hour  later,  stuffed  to 
bursting  with  gossip  that  must  on  no  account  be  imparted 
to  the  invalid,  she  found  Laura  sitting  up  in  bed,  her  eyes 
quick  and  intelligent,  her  passivity  a  thing  of  the  past. 

She  acclaimed  her. 

"My  dear,  you're  better!    You've  got  quite  a  colour." 

"Yes."  Laura  touched  the  paper  beside  her.  "You 
ought  to  have  told  me.  Why  didn't  you  tell  me?" 

Aunt  Adela  looked  guilty. 

"Did  I  leave ?  I  never  meant My  child,  you 

weren  't  fit Laura,  what  are  you  doing  ? ' ' 

Laura  threw  back  the  sheets. 

"I've  got  to  get  up."  Then,  softening  at  her  aunt's 
horror, ' '  Poor  Auntie !  I  must  have  been  a  nuisance.  But 
I  'm  all  right  now.  Can 't  you  see  ?  Who  was  it  ? " 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Gedge.  Laura,  don't  be  ridiculous!  Cover 
yourself  up!  They're  in  such  trouble.  They  can't  hold 
Robin.  And  he  was  to  have  been  ordained.  I'm  as  pa- 
triotic as  any  one,  but  I  do  not  see •  But  it  takes  hold 

of  the  men  somehow.  I  remember  your  father 

Extraordinary!  People  you'd  never  dream Now 

wouldn't  you  call  Justin  Cloud  the  last  person ?" 

She  checked  herself.  "Oh,  Laura,  I  didn't  mean  to  tell 

you — not  yet — the  doctor Now,  Laura,  I  will  not 

have  you  getting  up  ! " 

But  Laura,  hanging  on  to  the  edge  of  the  dressing-table, 
was  tugging  feebly  at  a  drawer. 

"I  must.  I  must  be  well.  There  must  be  things  to  do. 
D  'you  think  I  can  lie  here ?  When  did  you  hear  ? ' ' 


262  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

Aunt  Adela  was  resigned. 

"Well,  if  you  must,  I'll  get  you  a  dressing-gown.  Of 
course,  Dr.  Bradley  has  said  all  along  that  if  you  could 
only  make  the  effort " 

Laura  swayed  where  she  stood. 

"I'm  all  right.    When  did  you  hear?" 

"About  Justin?  I  knew  you'd  be  upset.  Not  that  he'll 
get  out.  Everybody  says  it  can't  last  six  months.  But  I 
wonder  he  hasn't  written.  I  had  such  a  nice  note  from 
Mrs.  Cloud,  apologizing  for  not  seeing  me  when  I  called. 
She  was  at  home  for  a  few  days — getting  things  together. 
She  is  going  to  town  for  the  present  to  be  near  him,  till  he 
knows  where  he's  training.  And  her  love  to  you.  H.A.C. 
I  wonder  if  he  11  get  a  commission  ?  But  you  '11  be  hearing 
from  Justin  himself  in  a  day  or  two,  I  expect.  Would 
you  like  some  hot  water?" 

She  bustled  out  of  the  room. 

Laura,  bent  and  flushed  over  the  task  of  putting  on 
stockings,  for  the  grasshopper  was  still  a  burden  for  all 
her  high-handedness,  wondered  how  she  was  to  convey  to 
Aunt  Adela  that  there  would  be  no  letters  from  Justin. 
And  from  that  passed  dully  to  the  knowledge  that  if  she 
had  been  patient,  if  she,  wise  in  her  own  eyes,  had  not 
chosen  to  force  the  issue,  there  would  have  still  been 
'letters'  in  her  life.  And  who,  pray,  was  she  to  have 
doubted  Justin  ?  '  *  H.A.C.— the  first  week ! ' '  This  was  the 
man  that  she  would  have  ruled  and  schooled!  ...  "A 
shock — that's  what  he  wants — a  shock.".  .  .  her  own  words 
were  a  bitter  taste  in  her  mouth.  For  now  it  had  come,  the 
shock,  the  real  thing — no  crazy  schoolgirl  artifice — and  she 
was  justified  to  her  own  undoing.  "A  private — the  first 
week!" 

Justified — thank  God  she  was  justified.  But  there  would 
be  no  letters  from  Justin. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

JUSTIN  CLOUD  and  Robin  Gedge  got  their  commissions  on 
the  same  day.  But  while  Robin  appeared  in  Brackenhurst 
every  few  weeks,  bronzed  and  broadened,  to  bewail  his 
stagnancy,  Justin,  by  luck  o'  war,  or,  as  Robin  jealously 
declared,  by  pulling  wires,  was  out  in  France  and  having 
parcels  sent  to  him  before  Brackenhurst  had  set  up  its  first 
Belgian  Committee.  Laura,  going  in  to  tea  with  Mrs. 
Cloud  on  her  way  home  from  the  Supply  Depot  in  the 
vicarage  barn,  would  sometimes  see  the  parcels  being  done 
up;  but  she  was  never  asked  to  help.  That  was  the  only 
difference  that  Mrs.  Cloud  ever  made  in  her  treatment  of 
Laura.  But  for  that  circumstance  Laura  would  have  said 
that  she  knew  nothing  of  that  summer  morning  in  another 
life.  She  seldom  spoke  of  Justin,  but  when  she  did,  it 
was  as  gently  and  openly  as  usual.  Yet  that  she  should  not 
know  all  that  had  happened  seemed  incredible  .  .  .  Justin 
told  his  mother  everything  .  .  .  and  surely,  if  she 
knew Did  she  know?  .  .  . 

The  uncertainty  made  Mrs.  Cloud's  unfailing  kindness 
hard  to  bear. 

But  it  was  typical  of  the  girl  and  the  woman  alike  that 
they  never  dreamed  of  approaching  the  subject  in  their 
almost  daily  intercourse.  If  either  had  been  less  occupied 
it  is  probable  that  their  common  anxiety  might  have  loos- 
ened at  least  Laura's  tongue.  But  Mrs.  Cloud  was  at  the 
head  of  every  good  work  in  the  village  and  Laura,  as  the 
year  wore  to  an  end,  had  her  hands  full  at  home.  For 
Gran 'papa,  testily  intolerant  of  cinnamon  or  sympathy, 
packing  off  his  daughter  to  her  depot,  submitting  grudg- 
ingly to  his  granddaughter's  ministrations,  Gran 'papa, 
denying  it  with  every  difficult  breath,  fell  ill.  "Nothing 

263 


264  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

serious,  I  hope,  Miss  Valentine?"  "No — only  a  cold. 
E  very-one  catches  cold  in  winter  time.  Gran 'papa  has  a 
cold." 

But  the  wet  bitter  weather  of  that  first  winter  of  war 
was  a  harvester  who  reaped  in  the  camps  and  training 
grounds  on  behalf  of  death  himself,  more  bloodily  busy  else- 
where— a  harvester  whose  sickle  was  chill  and  his  reaping 
hook  pneumonia — a  busy  harvester  who  yet  had  time  to 
go  gleaning  in  the  bare  homes  of  the  land  for  such  bent 
and  broken  straws  as  had  been  left  behind. 

Looking  back,  looking  down  the  civilian  death  lists  for 
which  nobody  has  had  time  these  three  long  years,  you  see 
how  abnormally  the  old  and  the  half-old  suffered.  Death 
after  death  in  the  'sixties  and  early  'seventies — '  Quite  sud- 
denly'— 'After  a  short  illness' — it  comes  over  and  over 
again.  You  think  of  them  as  old  limpets,  wrenched  from 
their  rocks  of  ages,  flung,  too  old  to  learn  to  cling  again, 
into  the  sea  of  this  war.  And  then,  fastening  on  their 
shocked  feebleness — the  cold. 

In  Brackenhurst  alone  there  were  more  deaths  in  that 
first  autumn  than  in  all  the  two  years  before. 

Old  Mrs.  Whittle  was  the  first  to  succumb — old  Mrs. 
"Whittle,  the  Valentines'  half  bed-ridden  pensioner  who 
lived  in  one  room  at  the  top  of  rickety  stairs,  which  Wilfred 
and  James  had  never  been  induced  to  climb  when  they  went 
with  Laura  and  Nurse  on  Sunday  afternoons  to  carry  Mrs. 
Whittle  beef-tea  and  sixpences.  It  always  struck  Laura 
as  so  unfair  that  because  of  their  easy  blubberings  they 
should  be  allowed  to  wait  at  the  foot  of  those  witch-cottage 
stairs,  while  she,  as  frightened  as  they  of  the  bright  eyes 
and  the  hoarse  whisper  and  the  movements  in  the  crimson 
shawl,  always  found  herself  following  Nurse  without  a 
protest  into  the  tiny,  rank  room.  Yet,  though  she  did  not 
know  it,  it  had  not  been  Nurse,  but  her  own  innate  fear 
of  causing  pain,  that  had  forced  her  steps.  More  insistent 
than  the  fear  of  Mrs.  Whittle  had  been  the  fear  of  hurting 
Mrs.  Whittle's  feelings.  She  had  stolidly  endured  the  din} 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  265 

airlessness,  the  fire  that  spat  startlingly,  the  bedclothes- 
smell,  and  sometimes — setting  her  teeth — a  kiss  from  Mrs. 
Whittle,  rather  then  hurt  the  feelings  of  Mrs.  Whittle 
who  had  rheumatics. 

' '  Bless  everybody,  and  Justin,  and  give  Mother  my  dear 
love,  and  make  Mrs.  Whittle  quite  well,"  had  run,  in  the 
dim  years,  her  nightly  petition. 

Laura  hated  pain. 

And  now  Mrs.  Whittle  was  dead,  needing  neither  six- 
pences nor  Sunday  visits  any  more  from  a  grown-up  Laura. 

Old  Jackson,  digging  her  water-logged  grave,  in  an 
absent  son's  stead,  shivered  and  coughed  in  the  keen  wind 
and  followed  her  in  a  week.  Two  children  from  Laura's 
Sunday-school  fell  sick  of  neglected  colds  and  the  listless, 
pining  mother,  in  her  dyed  mourning,  let  Laura  and  the 
doctor  do  as  they  pleased.  The  long  lists  lengthened  in 
the  church  porch  and  for  a  month  there  had  been  no  news 
of  Justin,  not  even  ttie  second-hand,  meagre  comfort,  the 
'I  am  quite  well'  of  a  field-postcard,  filtering  through  to 
her  by  way  of  Mrs.  Cloud.  She  had  been  glad  to  have 
her  hands  full.  It  helped  to  help  people.  .  .  .  And  the 
news  got  worse  and  worse. 

And  then  Gran 'papa  had  caught  cold. 

Aunt  Adela  was  inclined  to  blame  Papa.  Papa  had  in- 
sisted on  going — at  his  age ! — all  the  way  to  the  station  last 
Sunday,  to  get  a  paper  for  Laura — he,  who  so  strongly  dis- 
approved of  Sunday  papers.  And  all  because  Laura,  at 
lunch,  before  she  hurried  off  to  those  wretched  children, 
had  said  something  about  wishing  for  a  Sunday  delivery! 
Papa  was  very  difficult  to  manage.  She  had  spoken  to 
Laura  seriously  about  it  on  her  return.  Between  them  they 
might,  another  time,  circumvent  easily  enough  an  obstinate 
old  man — for  his  own  good,  of  course.  But  Laura,  who  was 
a  peculiar  girl  in  some  ways,  had  merely  stared  at  her  aunt 
with  those  blank,  black  eyes,  had  merely  said  with  a  ridicu- 
lous catch  in  her  voice — 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  Gran 'papa "    And  then, 


266  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

breaking  off  in  that  irritating  way  of  hers,  had  gone  up 
without  another  word  to  Papa's  room.  Had  stayed  there 
till  supper-time — had  not  even  come  down  to  say  how  do 
you  do  to  the  rector — had  spent  every  spare  minute  of  her 
time  there  since.  Well — she  would  catch  Papa's  cold  for  a 
certainty,  and  then  she  would  see ! 

But  Laura  did  not  catch  Gran 'papa's  cold.  It  was  not 
one  of  his  usual  colds,  the  angry,  vigorous,  resentful  colds 
of  his  healthy  old  age,  but  a  feverish  indisposition,  a  cer- 
tain fading  and  shrinking  of  body  that  accompanied  a 
glittering,  fitful,  mental  activity.  The  change  in  him  was 
so  marked,  so  swift,  that  at  the  end  of  the  week  Laura 
looked  back  to  the  Gran 'papa  of  last  Sunday  as  to  a  mem- 
ory, as  to  a  stranger. 

He  would  not  go  to  bed,  but  sat  crouched  over  the  fire 
in  the  armchair  that  Laura  had  never  before  realized  was 
so  much  too  big  for  Gran 'papa.  She,  when  she  could,  sat 
with  him,  eternally  knitting  socks  for  the  army  that  must 
always  be  to  her  but  a  multiplication  of  Justin,  thinking 
of  him  and  herself,  and  now,  with  new,  bewildered  thoughts, 
of  Gran 'papa. 

She  had  been  touched,  almost  beyond  her  strength,  by 
that  thought  of  his  for  her — by  the  sight  of  the  paper  in 
Gran 'papa's  shaking  hand,  handed  to  her  with  a  gesture 
that  he  could  not,  even  then,  prevent  from  being  gingerly. 
The  knowledge  that  he  had  guessed  something,  that  he 
had  been  aware  of  the  anxiety  that  showed  itself  in  her 
feverish  lust  for  news,  that  he,  behind  his  reserves  and 
absorptions,  had  watched  her,  felt  for  her — made  her  want 
to  cry.  She  could  be  Spartan,  but  of  necessity,  not  from 
choice.  There  was  nothing  of  the  Emily  Bronte  in  her 
nature:  she  took  as  generously  as  she  gave.  She  had 
strength  and  pride,  but  though  she  did  without  it,  she 
never  pretended  that  sympathy  would  not  have  been  sweet. 
In  those  days,  though  she  did  not  know  it,  though  she  had 
nearly  forgotten  her,  she  wanted  her  mother. 

Gran 'papa's  look  at  her  as  she  came  to  him  that  Sunday, 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  267 

his  silence,  his  awkward  thrust  of  the  rag  he  abhorred  into 
her  hand,  did  more  than  touch  her — it  strengthened  her. 
She,  to  whom  kith  and  kin  had  never  meant  much,  had 
felt  for  the  first  time  the  comfort  of  the  blood-tie,  of  the 
clan-love  that  is  independent  of  all  accidents  of  personality 
or  desert.  Gran 'papa  might  not  love  Laura,  but  she  real- 
ized at  last  how  faithfully  he  loved  his  grand-daughter. 

She  had  taken  the  paper  and  thanked  him,  and  settling 
herself  opposite  him  in  her  grandmother's  chair,  had  sat 
quietly  reading  the  aching  headlines.  And  in  the  silence 
that  followed  she  had  felt,  through  all  her  urgent  anxiety, 
how  the  icy  crust  under  which  the  quiet  river  of  their  mu- 
tual affection  had  always  flowed  imprisoned,  was  melting  at 
last.  They  made  no  demonstration.  It  was  not  in  his 
nature,  even  in  its  strength,  and  now  he  was  old,  enfeebled ; 
while  she  had  been  so  drilled  by  the  necessities  of  her  life 
with  Justin  that  she  wore  repression,  like  a  dress,  laced  over 
her  natural  impulsiveness ;  nevertheless  they  had  eased  each 
other.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  was  not  on  her 
best  behaviour  with  him:  her  little  ways,  the  occasional 
mannerisms,  he  passed  over  in  silence,  or  perhaps,  because 
she  was  at  her  entire  ease,  they  occurred  no  longer. 

She  nursed  him,  in  as  far  as  he  would  allow  it,  in  her 
busy  aunt's  stead;  for  his  cold  ran  no  normal  course:  a 
spell  of  sunshine  did  not  brisken  him:  he  coughed  and 
faded. 

After  a  paroxysm — it  was  distressing  to  see  him — he 
would  lie  exhausted  in  his  chair,  and  sometimes  wander  a 
little  or,  rather,  break  into  speech  that  was  but  drifting 
and  idle  thought.  And  Laura,  listening,  half  guiltily,  as 
one  eavesdropping,  marvelled  how  little  she  knew,  and  yet 
she  had  thought  she  knew,  Gran 'papa. 

He  talked  to  her,  of  his  schooldays,  of  his  youth,  of  mild 
adventures  before  he  married.  But  they  all  led  in  the  end, 
she  noticed,  to  Grandmamma,  whom  she  remembered 
vaguely  as  a  sweet  voice  and  a  smile,  in  a  pale-brown 
camel's-hair  shawl. 


268  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

He  would  speak  of  her,  watching  Laura's  face  and  her 
beautiful,  busy  hands. 

"You  don't  remember  your  grandmamma,  of  course?" 

"You  are  very  like  your  grandmamma." 

"You  are  very  like  my  wife." 

And  once  he  called  her  "Anne." 

Yet  another  side  to  Gran 'papa!  Laura,  as  she  dusted 
the  drawing-room,  would  find  herself  pausing  thoughtfully, 
wasting  long  minutes,  before  the  faded  crayon  on  the  bam- 
boo easel.  The  youthful,  slim-waisted  man,  with  the  ring- 
lets and  Roman  nose  and  serious  eyes,  who  reminded  her  of 
David  Copperfield  and  the  Duke  of  Wellington,  was,  not 
nominally  but  really,  Gran 'papa:  that  was  the  strange 
part  of  it.  Gran 'papa,  behind  his  shell  of  white  hair,  and 
trembling  hands,  and  hectorings,  and  fidgetiness,  was — not 
a  habit,  not  an  institution — but  a  man.  .  .  .  There  was  a 
closer  tie  between  them  than  the  accident  of  kinship :  they 
were  knit  by  the  common  experience  of  their  common 
humanity.  .  .  .  He  was  a  man  and  she  was  a  woman.  .  .  . 
He  knew — incredible  that  Gran 'papa  should  know — all  that 
she  knew.  .  .  .  He  had  loved  '  Anne, '  who  was  her  little  old 
dead  grandmother.  .  .  .  She  remembered  hints  of  Aunt 
Adela — scraps  of  stories  about  a  courtship  that  had  not 
been  all  plain  sailing.  .  .  .  He,  Gran 'papa  upstairs,  knew 
then  what  pain  meant — knew  as  well  as  Laura  the  sickness 
of  uncertainty  .  .  .  the  unnerving  hopes  and  fears  .  .  . 
knew  how  like  a  stone  one's  heart  could  lie  in  one's  breast. 

She  remembered  again — it  had  been  so  forgotten — the 
day  Grandmamma  died.  Gran 'papa  had  sat  all  the  morn- 
ing in  the  dining-room,  instead  of  in  his  room,  which  made 
it  strange  enough.  Gran 'papa — cold,  aloof  Gran 'papa — 
had  been  stranger  still.  He  had  sat  bowed  over  the  fire, 
with  his  big  silk  handkerchief  in  his  hand.  With  a  sort 
of  horror  Laura  had  watched  him,  had  seen  that  he  was 
crying.  He  had  looked  up  at  her  then  and  had  said — 
she  remembered  his  voice  and  his  words — "Forty  years — 
forty  years — "  over  and  over  again.  And  then  kindly,  as 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  269 

if  he  knew  she  were  frightened — "You've  never  seen  a  man 
cry,  have  you,  child?"  And  Aunt  Adela  had  said 
"Papa!"  in  a  queer,  warning  voice. 

That  was  all  she  remembered.  But  the  words  would 
not  leave  her  as  she  rubbed  the  shining  chair  legs  and 
pounded  ostentatiously  up  and  down  the  key-board,  to 
assure  Aunt  Adela,  if  Aunt  Adela  should  be  on  the  alert, 
that  she  was  dusting  properly. 

"A  man"— not  "Your  grandfather."  ...  "A  man" 
.  .  .  "My  wife"  .  .  . 

So  Gran 'papa  thought  of  himself  as  a  man  still.  .  .  .  He 
was  a  man.  .  .  .  The  years  they  had  passed  on  earth,  eight- 
een or  eighty,  could  alter  their  bodies,  but  not  their  souls. 
.  .  .  Gran 'papa's  soul — if  she  win  through  this  barrier  of 
his  old  and  dying  body  to  it — was  as  young  as  hers.  .  .  . 
And  hers  as  old  as  his.  ...  A  soul  hadn't  any  age  .  .  . 
or  reckoned  its  age,  not  by  years,  but  by  wisdom,  more  or 
less,  that  its  years  had  taught  it.  ...  And  so — why 
shouldn't  they  talk  to  each  other?  Gran 'papa  might  help 
her.  .  .  .  She  might  ease  Gran 'papa.  .  .  .  For  so  long  he 
had  had  no  one  to  whom  to  tell  his  thoughts.  .  .  . 

She  would  come  up  thoughtfully  after  her  housework  to 
spend  the  hour  before  lunch  with  him,  to  listen  or  to 
share  his  silence  and  to  talk  to  him  sometimes  in  her  turn, 
jerkily,  by  fits  and  starts.  She  never  knew  how  much  he 
heard. 

And  then  one  day,  quite  suddenly,  he  took  out  his  big 
pocket-book  and  showed  her,  wrapped  in  tissue,  a  strand 
of  hair,  a  long  coil  that  shone  like  old  gold  in  the  winter 
sunshine. 

"She  had  beautiful  hair,"  said  Gran 'papa. 

Laura  let  it  shower  through  her  fingers.  It  was  as  soft 
and  fine  as  her  own.  But  Grandmamma's  hair — she  could 
just  remember — had  been  silver,  not  gold.  .  .  .  Queer.  .  .  . 
Life  was  queer.  .  .  . 

She  watched  him  coil  and  fold  and  put  away  again  the 
golden  hair. 


270  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

"Was  Grandmamma — ?  Did  Grandmamma — ?  Did 
you  and  Grandmamma — ever  get  angry  with  each  other?" 
she  asked  him  abruptly. 

Gran 'papa  was  staring  at  the  fire.  She  knew  by  the 
turn  of  his  head  that  he  had  heard  her,  but  he  made  no 
answer. 

They  were  silent  for  a  time,  each  seeing  what  they  chose 
in  the  red  and  black  grotesques  of  the  coal. 

"She  had  the  gentlest  face,"  said  Gran 'papa  at  last, 
his  lips  scarcely  moving.  "Serene.  Patient.  But  I  have 
known  her — firm." 

Laura  nodded  softly. 

"He  is,  too " 

There  was  a  shadow  of  a  smile  on  Gran 'papa's  face,  the 
smile  we  keep  for  our  thoughts  and  our  ghosts. 

"It  never  lasted  long,"  said  Gran 'papa.  "Only  once — 
before  I  married  her."  He  was  silent  again. 

"It  lasts — with  Justin,"  said  Laura.  And  then — 
"Gran 'papa — Justin  is  angry  with  me.  We  are  not  en- 
gaged any  more." 

"It  was  my  fault,  I  do  believe,"  said  Gran 'papa  to  the 
fire. 

"Oh,  it  was  my  fault,"  said  Laura.  "I  think  I  was 
mad." 

She  sat  silent.  Her  thoughts  were  a  bitter  sea.  Its 
winds  and  waves  tossed  her  hither  and  thither. 

Her  words  came  again  mechanically,  as  if  she  did  not 
know  that  she  was  speaking,  like  a  child  learning  lessons 
it  its  sleep. 

"If  I  could  only  tell  him!  If  I  could  only  make  him 
see!  I  mayn't  even  write  to  him.  He's  fighting.  Any 
minute  may  kill  him.  Mrs.  Cloud  and  Rhoda  and  Lucy 
— they  all  write  to  him.  And  I  mayn  't. ' ' 

"Anne  wrote  to  me,"  said  Gran 'papa. 

"He'd  sneer.  He'd  tear  it  up.  He'd  say  'What's  up 
now?  She  might  have  the  decency  to  leave  me  alone.' 
Can't  you  hear  him  saying  it?  He  doesn't  want  me. 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  271 

Why  should  he,  for  that  matter  ? ' '  Her  fingers  locked  and 
relaxed  and  interlocked  again.  ' '  If  I  could  only  make  him 
understand, ' '  said  Laura.  ' '  If  he  dies ' ' 

"Anne  died,"  said  Gran 'papa. 

"Gran 'papa,"  Laura  touched  his  sleeve,  "it's  such 
misery. ' ' 

"Anne  wrote  to  me,"  repeated  Gran 'papa. 

She  moved  restlessly. 

"I  can't.     I've  no  right  any  more." 

She  stared  across  at  him,  questioning  him  with  tired 
young  eyes. 

"Gran 'papa — why  is  it?  Why  have  we  got  to  be  so 
awfully  unhappy?" 

He  muttered  and  smiled  to  himself,  half  hearing. 

"The  time — out  of  joint — that's  it — out  of  joint.  In  my 
young  days — April  showers  in  April — May  flowers  in  May. 
Anne  didn  't  want  a  vote. ' ' 

' '  There  was  the  Crimea.  I  suppose  there  were  women — 
just  the  same — widows — and  lovers " 

He  drummed  on  the  arm  of  his  chair. 

"Something  is  rotten  in  the  state  of  Denmark.  Do  you 
ever  read  Shakespeare,  my  dear?  I  advise  all  young  peo- 
ple   The  young  people  have  turned  the  world  upside 

down."  He  shivered.  "It's  cold." 

She  got  up  quietly  and  shut  the  window,  and  sat  down 
again  pulling  her  chair  a  little  nearer  to  him. 

"Kain  and  soft  weather  and  a  little  sun,"  he  rambled. 

"Winter?  We  used  to  skate.  But  now-a-days "  He 

cleared  his  throat.  His  eye  brightened.  He  was  the  old 
Gran 'papa,  declaiming — 

"The  seasons  alter,  hoar-headed  frosts 
Fall  in  the  fresh  lap  of  the  crimson  rose — the  crimson  rose " 

His  voice  faded.     He  peered  at  her. 

"You  should  go  for  a  walk.  White  cheeks!  White 
cheeks!"  Then— "What's  the  date?" 

"Tuesday,  Gran 'papa." 


272  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

"Tut— the  month?" 
"December." 

"Ah,  it  fits— it  always  fits- 
Ami  on  old  Hyem's  thin  and  icy  crown — 

Read  him!  Read  him!  There's  a  man!  And  died  at 
fifty — thirty  years  too  young  to  know  old  Hyem's  ways. 
But  he  knew!"  He  chuckled.  "I'd  like  to  have  met 
him,"  said  Gran 'papa  condescendingly. 

He  stared  across  at  his  grand-daughter,  lost  in  her  own 
thoughts.  His  expression  changed.  He  leaned  forward, 
touching  her  hot,  locked  hands  with  his  cold,  papery  fin- 
gers. 

"These  things  pass,"  said  Gran 'papa. 

He  shivered  again  and  glanced  over  his  shoulder. 

"Very  cold.     The  window " 

Laura  roused  herself. 

"It's  shut,  Gran 'papa.  But  I'll  make  up  the  fire." 
She  bent  blindly  over  the  dim  hearth. 

But  Gran 'papa,  with  a  fretful  sigh,  got  up  shakily  out 
of  his  chair.  He  was  sure  the  window  was  open.  Then  he 
remembered  his  birds,  clustering  on  the  roof  of  the  draw- 
ing-room below,  and  that  he  had  not  fed  them.  His  fingers 
rattled  on  the  pane  as  he  threw  up  the  sash.  Very  cold. 
.  .  .  The  wind  slid  in  like  a  snake,  striking  at  Gran 'papa, 
but  though  he  shivered  he  threw  out  the  crumbs  and  stood 
watching  the  instant,  twittering  turmoil,  with  a  glance  now 
and  then  at  the  empty  cage,  that  swung,  grazing  his  skull- 
cap, overhead.  He  missed  his  bird.  ...  Its  notes  .  .  . 
particularly  fine  ...  a  strain  of  bullfinch  .  .  .  inclined  to 
be  shrill,  of  course  .  .  .  but  a  wonderful  ear  .  .  .  indeed 
he  had  had  to  cover  the  cage  when  he  played  on  his  fiddle 
for  any  length  of  time.  ...  It  had  been — Gran 'papa 
smiled — jealous,  positively  jealous,  of  his  fiddle  ...  He 
thought  he  might  get  out  his  fiddle.  He  must  not  let  his 
fingers  get  stiff.  .  .  . 

What  was  that?  . 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  273 

He  turned  sharply,  holding  up  his  finger.  Absurd,  of 
course,  but  he  had  thought,  for  a  moment,  that  he  heard  at 
his  ear  the  quick  ruffling  of  feathers,  the  pretty,  question- 
ing twitter,  that  had  always  been  the  prelude  to  full- 
throated,  indignant  song.  .  .  .  The  cage 

The  cage  of  course  was  empty. 

Some  bird  outside.  .  .  .  He  had  left  the  window  open. 
.  .  .  He  tried,  in  a  childish  pet  against  the  birds  who  had 
tricked  his  ear,  to  push  down  the  sash  again,  but  it  was 
stiff  and  heavy — suddenly  too  stiff  and  heavy  for  Gran'- 
papa. 

He  called  peevishly 

"Laura!" 

But  she  was  adjusting  the  fire-irons  and  did  not  hear. 

He  left  it  open  and  turned  back  again  into  the  room. 
He  was  fumbling  with  his  fiddle-case  when  Laura  straight- 
ened herself,  and  with  a  smile  and  a  show  of  blackened 
fingers,  slipped  out  of  the  room. 

"Come  back,"  muttered  Gran 'papa. 

She  meant  to  come  back  when  she  had  washed  her  hands ; 
but  Aunt  Adela  waylaid  her,  discovered  her  using  the  basin 
in  her  room — inconsiderate — making  fresh  work — when 
there  was  the  bathroom !  Laura,  undeniably  in  the  wrong, 
had,  by  all  unwritten  rules,  necessarily  to  pay  forfeit  to 
Aunt  Adela,  to  attend  without  protest  to  a  criticism  of  her 
untidy  room,  to  hang  up  skirts  under  Aunt  Adela 's  eye, 
to  dust  a  mantelpiece  and  re-adjust  ornaments  to  the  high- 
pitched  ripple  of  Aunt  Adela 's  voice,  and  to  respond  cheer- 
fully in  the  infrequent  pauses. 

"Yes,  Auntie.  Oh,  of  course.  Yes — I  think  you're 
right." 

That,  she  thought,  was  all  Aunt  Adela  wanted.  .  .  .  She 
hated  having  her  room  overhauled.  .  .  .  But,  after  all, 
what  did  it  matter — what  did  anything  matter  now-a-days, 
with  Justin  away  at  the  front  .  .  .  fighting?  .  .  . 

She  wondered  if  he  had  liked  his  parcel.  .  .  . 

She  wondered  if  he  were  still  alive.  . 


274  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

"What  did  you  say,  Auntie?  Oh,  I  see.  Oh — perfectly 
disgraceful — I  should  give  her  notice " 

She  pushed  back  her  hair.  Her  back  ached.  She  felt 
very  tired.  She  wanted  to  get  back  to  Gran 'papa.  She 
could  hear  the  thin  scrape  of  his  bow,  and  the  fiddle 's  stray 
uncertain  notes  as  he  tuned  it.  And  then,  suddenly, 
swiftly,  joyously,  it  broke  into  the  thrice-familiar  tune — 

Duncan  Gray  cam'  here  to  woo, 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't, 
On  blythe  yule  night  when  we  were  fou, 

Ua,  ha,  the  wooing  o't. 

She  knew  the  words  by  heart,  in  the  unintelligent  fash- 
ion in  which  one  knows  the  words  of  a  song.  But  today 
they  caught  her  ear,  rang  in  her  mind  to  the  staccato  of  the 
fiddle,  significant,  suggestive. 

She  had  often  wondered  that  it  should  be  such  a 
favourite  tune  with  Gran 'papa.  Today  she  knew  why. 
The  music,  like  strong  sunlight  shining  on  a  palimpsest, 
revealed  beneath  her  mind's  modernity  an  older  picture, 
faint  and  faded,  of  a  shadowy,  gallant  young  Gran 'papa, 
quarrelling  deliciously,  a  fiddle  under  his  chin,  with  a  slim 
girl  who  was  called  Anne  (like  Anne,  the  'elegant  little 
woman'  in  Persuasion)  and  sat  at  a  pianoforte  fingering  out 
the  accompaniment  of  an  old  song.  She  had  a  sweet  voice 
and  wore  a  dress  of  lavender  print,  but  her  smooth  golden 
hair,  as  the  impression  faded  again,  was  not  golden  at  all, 
but  red,  a  dull,  beautiful  red,  matching  exactly,  as  Laura 
was  aware,  with  the  beech  leaves  under  which  she  sat  as 
she  bickered  with  Justin  and  made  it  up  again,  one  spring, 
not  sixty  springs,  ago. 

"Laura — you've  shut  your  new  skirt  in  the  cupboard 
door!  You  never  look." 

"Sorry,  Auntie." 

"Well,  as  I  was  saying — I  went  down  to  the  kitchen 
directly  after  breakfast  and  I  said " 

Gran 'papa  had  been  playing  that  day  too.     They  could 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  275 

see  him  at  his  window,  sawing  vigorously,  from  where 
they  sat  .  .  .  Justin  had  made  one  of  his  comical  remarks 
about  it.  ...  It  seemed  such  ages  ago,  now — that  spring. 
...  It  had  been  the  last  of  the  happy  times.  ...  It  was 
soon  after  that,  that  things  began  to  go  wrong  .  .  .  badly 
wrong.  .  .  .  Her  thoughts  roamed  achingly  over  all  the 
trivial,  tragical  wrong  that  she  and  Justin  had  done  each 
other  in  the  eternity  that  was  not  two  years — not  two 
years.  .  .  .  Gran 'papa  had  sixty  years  to  retrace.  Her 
thoughts  hovered  over  Gran 'papa  awhile  and  then  back 
again  to  Justin.  He  was  hard.  .  .  .  She  didn't  think  she 
could  be  so  cruel  to  her  worst  enemy  as  Justin  was  to  her. 
.  .  .  Not  a  word.  .  .  .  Not  a  message.  .  .  .  And  not  to 
want  a  word!  .  .  .  Yet  he  was  essentially  a  kindly  man. 
It  was  a  queer  lack  of  imagination,  she  supposed.  .  .  .  She 
supposed  he  never  thought  of  her  at  all.  ...  It  was  just 
— over — for  him.  ...  It  never  occurred  to  him  that  she 
loved  him  still  .  .  .  that  she  lived  in  hell.  .  .  .  But  it 
wasn't  that  he  wouldn't  have  cared  if  he  could  have  under- 
stood, she  told  herself  in  sudden  passionate  defence  of 
him.  He  couldn't  help  it — it  was  the  way  he  was 
made.  .  .  . 

Well — she  had  known  all  that.  .  .  .  That  was  why  she 
had  done  what  she  had  done.  She  had  staked  all  she 
had  .  .  .  failed  ...  so  she  must  pay.  .  .  .  Yet  such  a 
price  for  birds'  eggs!  Birds'  eggs!  Her  mouth  twisted 
sardonically.  If  it  had  happened  to  any  one  else — how  Jus- 
tin would  have  laughed  .  .  .  how  they  would  have  talked 
it  over!  She  could  hear  him,  laying  down  the  law  about 
it.  ...  She  missed  that  most  of  all — that  dear,  absurd 
solemnity  of  his  as  he  laid  down  the  law  to  her.  .  .  .  She 
stood,  remembering,  hardening  her  eyes  and  her  heart 
against  the  tears  she  despised.  How  she  missed  him  .  .  . 
how  unspeakably  she  missed  him.  .  .  . 

What  a  fool  she  had  been.  .  .  .  What  was  the  use  of 
scruples.  .  .  .  Why  hadn't  she  kept  what  she  had?  .  .  . 
She  might  have  been  married  to  him  at  that  moment.  .  .  . 


276  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

Even  if  he  didn't  love  her — half  a  loaf  was  better  than  no 
bread.  .  .  .  Who  was  she  to  have  imagined  herself  his 
keeper?  .  .  .  He  knew  his  own  mind.  .  .  .  He  had  asked 
her  to  marry  him.  .  .  . 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't. 

squeaked  the  violin. 

"Did  you  ever  hear  of  such  a  thing?  Well — I  said  to 
her,  quite  quietly,  you  know,  but  with  dignity — I  said  to 
her :  '  I  think,  Ellen,  the  time  has  come  to  make  a  change. ' 
Simply  that.  It  was  quite  enough.  She  apologized  at 
once. ' ' 

Laura  murmured  congratulations.  She  wished  Aunt 
Adela  would  be  merciful  enough  to  stop  talking,  or  at  any 
rate  needing  answers.  ...  It  was  so  difficult  to  think  of 
the  right  answers  with  that  insistent  tune  ringing  in  one's 
ears.  .  .  . 

It  wavered  and  sank  to  a  sigh  as  she  listened  against  her 
will— 

Time  and  chance  are  but  a  tide; 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't; 
Slighted  love  is  sair  to  bide 

It  slackened  and  jarred  as  Gran 'papa's  hand — she  knew 
that  pathetic,  involuntary  relaxation  of  his  stiif  fingers — 
mumbled  the  strings.  But  the  half  learnt  words  ran  on 
in  her  head,  perverted  into  absurd  appositeness — 

She  may  gae  to — France  for  me! 

But  it  was  Justin  who  had  gone  to  France.  .  .  .  They 
were  killing  three  hundred  men  a  day  in  France — in  the 
trenches  .  .  .  where  Justin  was.  .  .  . 

For  long  minutes  her  terrible  phantasy  made  it  all  very 
clear  to  her,  while  the  tune  jangled  on  again  to  its  happy 
ending — 

Now  they're  crouse  and  canty  baith 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  277 

She  waited  for  the  last  line,  impatiently,  as  for  release, 
as  for  the  breaking  of  a  spell;  but  there  came  no  sound — 
only  a  sudden  silence  that  was  louder  than  any  sound.  She 
roused  at  it,  pitifully  chiding  herself  for  the  selfishness  of 
her  misery  and,  regardless  of  Aunt  Adela,  bundled  the 
rest  of  her  clothes  into  the  wardrobe  and  hurried  out  of 
the  room. 

Poor  old  Gran 'papa  ...  to  leave  him  so  long  alone. 
...  A  string  or  something  must  have  snapped.  .  .  .  She 
must  run  down  and  see,  and  get  him  a  new  one  .  .  .  the 
dresser  drawers  were  so  heavy  for  him  to  pull  out.  .  .  . 

She  ran  down  the  stairs  in  her  swift,  noiseless  fashion 
and  tapped  at  his  door,  and  tapped  again,  and  then,  with 
a  sudden  catching  of  breath,  opened  it. 

She  had  been  right:  something  had  snapped  indeed.  A 
cord — a  silver  cord  had  been  loosed;  but  it  was  not  the 
G  string  of  the  little  old  fiddle. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

THE  funeral  of  old  Mr.  Valentine,  the  'To  Let'  board  on 
Green  Gates,  and  the  cottage  into  which  the  Miss  Valentines 
were  to  move  at  the  March  quarter,  gave  Brackenhurst  a 
pleasant  change  from,  the  Mad  Dog  of  Europe  and  the 
soaring  prices  of  meat  and  margarine.  But  long  before  the 
subject  was  exhausted  it  had  to  make  way  in  turn  for  the 
news  that  Justin  Cloud  had  been  made  a  Captain — "Oh, 
three  stars,  I  believe:  it's  the  Majors  that  have  the 
crown — "  and  that  Robin  Gedge  had  married  Annabel 
Moulde  at  a  registry  office.  It  was  Brackenhurst 's  first 
war  wedding,  and  it  divided  the  village  into  two  camps, 
into  those  that  were  more  thrilled  than  shocked  and  those 
that  were  more  shocked  than  thrilled.  Annabel,  of  course, 
suffered  as  a  pioneer  does;  for  when  Rhoda  Cloud,  six 
months  later,  married  a  man  she  had  nursed  a  week  and 
known  a  month,  it  was  acclaimed  as  a  most  romantic  affair ; 
but  Brackenhurst,  rallying  round  Mrs.  Gedge,  had  few 
good  words  for  Annabel — and  none  at  all  for  Laura  Valen- 
tine. For  it  came  out,  as  such  things  will,  that  Laura 
Valentine  had  been  in  the  secret — had  actually  gone  up  to 
town  with  Annabel  and  had  seen  her  married.  "Would 
you  believe  it?  Such  a  sensible  girl,  and  her  grandfather 
not  dead  six  weeks ! ' ' 

"And  it  wasn't — "  Aunt  Adela  wailed,  "as  if  you'd 
ever  been  friends  with  Annabel ! ' ' 

"I  know,"  said  Laura  guiltily. 

She  was  as  puzzled  at  her  own  conduct  as  Brackenhurst, 
or  as  Annabel  Moulde  herself. 

For  Annabel,  that  silken  skirmisher,  had  found  herself, 
as  she  sheltered  at  Green  Gates  one  afternoon,  neither 
feinting,  thrusting,  nor  awaiting  attack ;  but,  huddled  over 
a  comforting  hearth,  with  the  rain  curtaining  the  windows, 

278 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  279 

the  flames  dancing  from  her  little  bronze  toes  on  the  fender 
to  Laura's  kniting  needles  and  back  again  to  her  toes,  was 
inexplicably  impelled  to  confidences. 

"Robin — going  out — simply  miserable,  both  of  us.  Mrs. 
Gedge — an  old  beast — loathes  me — always  has — 'Wait  till 
the  war's  over' — always  the  same  old  story." 

It  came  out  in  jerks  to  the  accompaniment  of  the  crack- 
ling fire  and  the  purring  of  the  cat  on  Laura's  knee. 

"If  I  were  only  married  to  him — it  would  make  all  the 
difference — I  could  stand  it  then."  Then,  in  sudden, 
sullen  retreat:  "Oh,  of  course,  I  don't  expect  you  to 
understand.  You  think  it's  husband-hunting — like  Mrs. 
Gedge." 

Again  there  was  a  silence,  with  the  flames  lighting  up 
Annabel's  face  and  losing  Laura's  in  the  shadows  of 
Gran 'papa's  chair. 

"Not  that  I  care  what  you  think.  But  if  Kobin's  hurt 
— they  '11  keep  me  out.  I  couldn  't  even  wear  mourn- 
ing." 

Laura's  exclamation  could  have  meant  anything — but 
Annabel  reddened,  stammering  a  little — 

"Well,  but — can't  you  understand?  It's  true.  I'd 

have  no  right I  want  my  right.  And — and  I've 

never  felt  like  that  about  any  of  my  boys.  I  never  did 

about  Robin  himself — till  the  war.  But  now Oh, 

Laura,  what  am  I  to  do  ? " 

"Do?  What  can  any  one  do?"  Laura's  voice  was  as 
expressionless  as  her  face. 

"No — that's  just  it.  And  yet I  tell  you,  Laura, 

sometimes  I'm  ready  to  take  Robin  at  his  word  and  marry 
him  in  spite  of  his  mother. ' ' 

' '  He  wants  that  ? ' '  Laura  paused  a  moment  in  her  work 
and  considered  the  pretty,  blubbered  face  thoughtfully. 

"Well — what  do  you  think?"  Annabel's  smile  suited 
her  better  than  tears. 

"I — see.  Well,  why  don't  you,  then?"  Laura  turned 
her  sock  with  a  flick. 


280  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

Annabel  stared  at  her. 

"What — d'you  mean — run  away?  Keally?  Seri- 
ously?" 

"Why  not?" 

Annabel  giggled  nervously. 

"Well — I  haven't  any  money  to  begin  with.  I've  spent 
my  next  quarter  already." 

"I'd  lend  you  some.  And  Robin  would  meet  you  in 
town." 

' '  But — but — how  could  I  ?  Mother  would  never  get  over 
it.  Mother's  terrified  of  Mrs.  Gedge.  I  couldn't " 

"Oh,  well  then " 

Laura  dropped  the  subject  indifferently. 

They  sat  awhile  in  silence. 

Annabel  fidgeted.  Her  restless  eyes  wandered  round  the 
room. 

"I  ought  to  be  going.  The  rain's  stopped,"  she  volun- 
teered at  last. 

"Oh — must  you?"     Laura  rose  courteously. 

"Laura — "  Annabel  stooped  to  pick  up  the  disgruntled 
tabby  stretching  itself  indignantly  on  the  hearthrug — 
"Laura — if  I  did — Laura — do  you  honestly  think  it  would 
be  right?" 

"Right?"  The  flames  had  found  Laura's  face  at  last, 
lighting  up,  laying  bare  its  weakness  and  its  strength,  soft 
eyes  and  tender  mouth  and  the  new  hard  lines  about  eyes 
and  mouth  alike.  ' '  Right  ?  You  're  a  woman,  aren  't  you  ? 
You've  a  man  fighting  for  you?  You  give  what  you  can 
and  take  what  you  can — while  you  've  the  chance !  Right  ? ' ' 
Her  voice  deepened.  "It's  your  own  two  lives!  Don't 
you  let  them  rob  you — even  if  they  are  your  own  people. 
They  talk  about  prudence  and  marry  in  haste — and  tell 
you  to  wait — and  wait — and  wait!  It  would  be  devilish 
the  way  they  talk,  if  they  understood.  But  of  course — 
they  can't.  They're  old.  They've  forgotten.  They  mean 
well.  But  you — you  take  your  chance!" 

"But — but — "  began  Annabel  helplessly. 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  281 

"And  there's  another  thing.  You  talk  about  rights. 
It's  not  only  your  right.  The  children — our  children — 
they  have  their  right  to  be  born.  Well — and  if  he  is 
killed  and  you  are  poor — you  '11  be  able  to  feed  a  child,  and 
clothe  it,  and  teach  it  to  read,  I  suppose — if  you  can't  send 
it  to  Eton.  You  give  it  life  anyway,  and  love,  and  care. 
That  ought  to  be  good  enough.  'What  porridge  had  John 
Keats'?" 

"But — you  talk,"  Annabel  whimpered.  "I  only  want 
Robin." 

Laura,  pulled  up  short,  stared  at  her  a  moment.  Then 
she  laughed. 

"I  know.  Of  course.  Of  course  I  know.  And — 
and — "  she  flushed  prettily.  "All  I  meant — I  only  mean, 
my  dear — it's  no  business  of  mine — but  if  you  want  back- 
ing, I'll  back  you.  There's  a  telephone  in  the  next  room. 
He's  at  Maidstone,  isn't  he?  It's  a  trunk  call.  Aunt 
Adela  won 't  be  in  till  supper.  You  go  and  talk  things  over 
with  Robin." 

And  the  end  of  it  was  that  Annabel  and  Laura  went  up 
to  town  by  an  early  train  one  fine  morning,  for  a  day's 
shopping.  And  indeed  they  did  buy  various  trifles,  be- 
sides a  white  coat  and  skirt,  and  a  white  beaver  hat,  and  an 
inconspicuous  bunch  of  lilies  of  the  valley  with  a  sprig  of 
orange  blossom  tucked  away  in  the  middle — but  they  were 
a  present  from  Laura.  Laura  came  home  alone  with  a  note 
for  Mrs.  Moulde  and  another  for  Mrs.  Gedge  in  her  pocket 
(she  thrust  them  through  the  letter-boxes  and  fled)  and, 
as  I  told  you,  was  cold-shouldered  by  the  vicarage  long 
after  Robin  and  Annabel  had  been  forgiven. 

But  though  Mrs.  Cloud  included  the  vicarage  set  in  her 
visitors'  list,  the  vicarage  set  could  not  claim  the  honour 
of  including  Mrs.  Cloud.  At  any  rate,  Mrs.  Cloud  gave 
no  sign  of  disapprobation:  might  have  been  thought,  in- 
deed, to  be  kinder  of  late  to  Laura.  But  Mrs.  Cloud  was 
always  kind.  Certainly  it  did  Laura  no  harm  to  be  met 


282  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

at  the  Priory  more  often  than  usual  by  Brackenhurst :  in- 
deed, as  she  called  in  for  the  third  day  running  on  some 
small  errand — a  basket  of  early  primroses,  I  believe,  that  a 
school  child  had  given  her,  but  that  were  so  obviously 
grown  for  the  great  glass  bowl  in  the  yellow  parlour  that 
she  had  to  pass  them  on — she  thought,  to  herself,  she  would 
not  permit  herself  to  think,  that  it  was  like  old  times.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

LAURA  handed  her  basket  to  the  maid,  but  she  had  not  long 
to  wait.  Mrs.  Cloud  was  at  home,  quite  eagerly  at  home  to 
an  opportune  Laura.  Laura  wondered  at  the  warmth  of 
her  greeting,  at  the  gaiety  of  her  air. 

It  was  the  first  fine  day  of  the  spring,  and  the  sun  was 
doing  his  best  for  an  earth  still  wind-swept  and  doubt- 
fully green,  yet  the  light  and  warmth  and  the  radiance  that 
filled  the  room  seemed  to  emanate,  not  from  him,  but  from 
Mrs.  Cloud  herself,  sitting  in  a  glory  by  her  windowful  of 
half  grown  daffodils,  her  lap  a  tumble  of  telegram  and  en- 
velope and  Laura 's  primroses,  young  lights  in  her  eyes,  and 
a  letter,  a  letter,  in  her  hand. 

Justin  had  got  his  leave,  Laura!  Justin  had  got  his 
leave  at  last!  Justin  was  coming  home — had  written 
twice — contradictorily — and  now  a  wire!  He  would  be 
home  tomorrow  night.  And  in  the  meantime  his  letter  had 
come,  the  letter  he  had  written  before  he  was  quite  sure. 

If  it  had  arrived  earlier  Laura  might  have  heard  less 
about  it;  but  the  gate  at  the  end  of  the  drive  had  barely 
closed  on  the  postman  before  it  had  opened  again  to  her, 
and  Mrs.  Cloud,  full  of  her  good  tidings,  had  yielded  to  old 
custom  and  the  comfort  of  a  listener.  So  Laura,  though 
she  was  not  allowed  to  read  the  letter  herself — such  privi- 
leges were  hers  not  longer — yet  heard  its  every  word  read 
aloud  by  a  voice  that,  strengthened  by  excitement,  was 
more  than  ever  the  softened,  haunting  shadow  of  Justin's. 

Such  a  delightful  letter  as  it  was  too — such  a  hasty, 
pencilled  letter  that  yet  found  time  to  be  full  of  prob- 
lematical orderly  detail  of  his  itinerary,  to  be  margined 
with  instructions  as  to  what  his  mother  was  and  was  not 
to  do  in  the  matter  of  coming  to  town  and  meeting  trains — 

283 


284  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

a  letter  that  had  been  so  obviously  written,  not  by  Captain 
Cloud  of  the  Kentshires,  but  by  H.  J.  Cloud  of  the  Lower 
Fifth,  arriving  for  his  half-term  holiday  and  leaving  no 
item  of  the  program  to  chance.  Justin  could  write  a  good 
letter,  couldn't  he,  Laura? 

Laura,  always  quiet  and  now  quieter  than  ever,  with  con- 
trolled hands  and  two  bright  spots  of  colour  in  her  tired 
face,  made  the  little  necessary  ejaculations,  steering  so  deli- 
cately between  indifference  and  absorption,  that  Mrs.  Cloud 
enjoyed  her  reponses  as  she  enjoyed  music,  as  a  soothing 
accompaniment  to  her  own  thoughts.  So  impersonal,  in- 
deed, could  Laura  be,  that  it  was  not  until  she  was  left 
alone  again  that  Mrs.  Cloud  realized  that  she  had  broken 
through  her  rule  of  avoiding  the  subject  of  Justin — the 
rule  that  she  had  devised,  half  to  spare  and  half  to  punish 
a  criminal  Laura. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  She  could  not  be  deeply 
disturbed.  Her  anger,  for  she  had  had  her  guess-work 
anger  on  behalf  of  an  injured  but  uncommunicative  son, 
had  long  ago  died  down.  It  smouldered,  of  course,  flicker- 
ing up  occasionally  into  perplexed  resentment:  would 
never,  I  think — though  Justin  and  Laura  should  miracu- 
lously adjust  their  differences — be  completely  extinguished ; 
for  it  was  not  in  Mrs.  Cloud's  nature,  so  sweetly  oblivious 
of  sins  against  herself,  ever  to  forgive  a  harshness  or  forget 
a  kindness  rendered  to  those  she  loved;  but  the  hot  ashes 
of  it  were  hidden  deep  in  her  heart — she  had  found  herself 
able,  in  time,  to  be  reconciled,  to  pretend  justice  to  Laura. 
She  said  to  herself  very  often  that  she  did  not  want  to  be 
unkind.  .  .  .  Justin,  she  admitted,  was  not  an  ordinary 
boy.  .  .  .  He  had  needed  understanding — and  Laura  was 
very  young.  ...  If  only  they  had  either  of  them  seen  fit 
to  confide  the  cause  of  their  quarrel  to  her,  she  was  sure 
that  she  could  have  helped  them  over  it.  ...  Justin  was 
so  much  her  own  son  that  his  reserve  could  not  hurt  her, 
but  she  thought  Laura  should  have  come  to  her.  .  .  .  She 
thought  Laura  owed  her  that.  .  .  . 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  285 

Mrs.  Cloud,  you  see,  was  hampered  by  being  fond  of 
Laura.  She  missed  her,  for  Laura  did  not  come  as  often  as 
in  the  old  days:  and  Laura,  as  more  than  Mrs.  Cloud  had 
discovered,  had  her  insidious,  disconcerting  way  of  becom- 
ing indispensable.  You  tolerated  the  harmless  creature, 
acknowledging  even  a  pleasant  quality  in  it,  as  of  unob- 
trusive furniture,  and  then,  one  day,  when  you  felt  your- 
self most  free,  it  would  turn  on  you,  not  a  chair,  not  a 
table,  but  a  laughing  woman,  who  challenged  you,  with  a 
twinkle,  to  try  and  do  without  her. 

But  Mrs.  Cloud  did  not  go  into  that.  She  only  knew 
that  of  all  possible  daughters-in-law  she  would  have  ob- 
jected least  to  Laura  Valentine.  For  she  and  Laura  had 
always  shared,  though  they  did  not  know  it,  their  prophetic 
dread  of  the  Minx,  rouged,  gilded,  and  irresistible,  who,  if 
they  were  not  extremely  careful,  would  one  day  carry 
off  Justin  and  make  him  miserable.  Justin's  deportment 
at  garden-parties,  his  invincible  indifference  to  musical 
comedies  and  mixed  tennis,  might  reassure  them  momen- 
tarily, but  they  never  really  believed  that  he  could  be 

trusted  by  himself.  And  now  he  was  in  uniform For 

they  knew,  the  worldly  twain,  cynically  they  knew  What 
Women  Were!  There  was  that  girl,  for  instance,  that 
much  advertised  friend  of  Rhoda's — with  the  ear-rings — 
who  had  openly  announced  herself  as  dying  to  meet  Cap- 
tain Cloud.  Hussy !  Impassive  Laura,  handing  tea-cakes, 
had  been  so  grateful  to  Mrs.  Cloud  for  sniffing. 

But  then,  in  spite  of  their  differences,  Mrs.  Cloud  and 
Laura  always  did  understand  each  other. 

Laura  said  good-bye  at  last,  and  went  away,  leaving  Mrs. 
Cloud  in  a  happy  fever  of  activity,  bewildering  herself 
with  Bradshaw,  interviewing  the  coachman,  and  in  defiance 
of  her  half  a  dozen  servants,  airing  sheets  at  the  drawing- 
room  fire.  Master  Justin — Captain  Cloud,  I  mean — is 
coming  home ! 

Justin — Captain  Cloud,  I  mean — is  coming  home. 

The  theme  was  Mrs.  Cloud's,  rang  in  her  head  in  Mrs. 


286  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

Cloud's  voice,  but  the  intricacies  of  its  variations  were 
Laura's  own.  She  was  utterly  unable  to  force  her  mind 
from  the  subject.  Her  brain  was  a  like  a  keyboard  at 
which  her  soul  sat  fingering  out  the  Harmonious  Justin,  till 
she  was  ready  to  scream.  Her  share  of  what  the  village 
called  war-work  had  not  been  light,  and  she  was  besides  so 
wearied  out  by  the  strain  and  the  pain  and  the  unlifting 
terror  of  the  past  months,  that  her  thoughts  were  often  able 
to  escape  her  control,  to  weaken  her  still  further  by  their 
irresponsibility.  There  were  times  when  she  could  not 
think  consecutively  at  all:  and  yet  she  could  never  stop 
thinking,  and  at  a  furious  rate,  till  her  mind  seemed  a 
cosmos  bereft  of  gravity. 

Into  that  chaos,  which  even  Mrs.  Cloud  could  never  have 
connected  with  Laura  of  the  trim  blue  serges,  and  the 
Refugee  Committee,  and  the  restful,  smiling  ways — into 
that  chaos  of  dead  hopes  and  living  fears,  Mrs.  Cloud's 
news  flashed  like  a  comet,  brilliant,  portentous.  Justin  was 
coming  home. 

She  tried  to  be  blind  to  this  new  light  in  her  sky.  She 
told  herself  that  it  had  nothing  to  do  with  her,  that  she 
must  not,  in  pride,  in  decency,  let  her  thoughts  be  con- 
cerned with  him.  .  .  .  But  Justin  was  coming  home!  .  .  . 
She  had  no  right,  she  reminded  herself  fiercely,  to  be  sorry 
or  glad  any  more  for  Justin.  .  .  .  But  at  least  he  would  be 
safe.  .  .  .  For  a  whole  week  he  would  be  safe.  .  .  .  She 
might  sleep  sound,  if  she  could,  for  a  whole  week.  .  .  . 
She  need  not  even  pray.  .  .  .  All  she  might  do — all  she 
could  do — for  a  Justin  safely  home  again,  was  to  keep  out 
of  his  way.  .  .  .  He  would  not  want  to  see  her.  .  .  .  She 
would  not  afford  him,  or  herself,  the  embarrassment  of  a 
meeting.  .  .  .  She  would  not  spoil  his  holiday  by  appear- 
ing to  exist.  .  .  . 

She  thought  that  she  ought  to  go  away  altogether — pay 
some  invented  visit  to  imaginary  relatives.  .  .  .  But  that 
she  could  not  do.  ...  That — probing  her  soul — she  could 
not  do.  ...  She  found  she  had  not,  literally,  the  strength 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  287 

to  leave  Brackenhurst  when  Justin  was  coming  home.  But 
she  would  keep  out  of  his  way.  .  .  . 

Not  that  it  would  upset  Justin  if  he  did  run  into  her. 
.  .  .  He  would  pass  her — she  could  see  him — as  carelessly 
as  he  might  pass  some  futile  cur  that  had  once  snapped  at 
him.  .  .  .  He  would  have  put  her  out  of  his  mind  by  now, 
definitely  and  completely.  .  .  .  She  knew  his  indifferent, 
inexorable  way  .  .  .  She  had  bruised  herself  often  enough 
against  his  unimagination,  his  sturdy  mind  that  was  like 
a  house  with  one  window.  Oh,  he  saw  life  clearly  through 
it — but  how  little  he  saw!  But  there  was  no  use  in  going 
over  that.  .  .  .  All  she  had  to  remember  was  to  keep  out 
of  his  way.  .  .  .  But  she  would  not  leave  Brackenhurst. 
.  .  .  For  if  Justin — suppose  that  Justin — suppose  that  by 
some  miracle  Justin  had  changed — had  learned  to  forgive — 
to  forget — to  want  her  again!  Miracles  did  happen.  .  .  . 

You  are  right — she  cannot,  at  the  time  of  his  leave,  have 
been  quite  sane.  For,  all  the  long  week,  she  lived,  fiercely 
as  she  denied  it  to  herself,  in  mad,  fantastic  expectation  of 
that  miracle.  Every  passer-by  on  the  long  road,  every 
click  of  the  gate,  every  bell  rung  in  the  kitchen,  every  foot- 
step on  the  gravel,  from  the  paper-boy  before  the  maids 
came  down  to  the  gardener  going  home  at  night,  was 
Justin — was  Justin !  Fifty  times  in  the  weary  day  the 
impossible  happened,  the  miracle  was  vouchsafed,  and 
Justin  came  to  her — Justin,  who  never  came.  In  the  win- 
dow-seat, above  the  white  high-road,  where,  so  many 
years  ago,  she  had  watched  for  the  coming  of  another  love, 
she  crouched  again  and  peered  out  at  the  passers-by,  and 
starved  and  starved  for  him. 

Yet  life  ran  on  as  usual  in  Brackenhurst,  though  Bel- 
gium smoked  to  heaven  and  Justin  were  home  on  leave: 
and  Laura  had  her  duties.  Two  days'  grace,  or  three, 
might  be  allowed  her  for  her  imaginary  headache — but  on 
the  fourth  Brackenhurst  clamoured  for  its  indispensable 
Miss  Valentine,  and  she  must  set  out  through  by-ways 
to  her  Belgians  and  her  babies,  to  lunch  at  the  other  end 


288  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

of  the  village,  with  an  afternoon's  sewing  to  follow,  and 
must  keep  her  eyes  bright  and  her  tongue  wagging  to  amuse 
her  world  the  while. 

The  sun  was  near  the  edge  of  the  earth  before  the  Depot 
gates  closed  on  her  and  she  was  her  own  mistress  again. 

She  hesitated.  She  was  very  tired,  and  Aunt  Adela 
would  be  fretful  if  she  were  late  for  tea.  .  .  .  She  felt  that 
a  scolding  from  Aunt  Adela,  the  rasp  of  her  plaintive  voice, 
must  at  all  costs  be  avoided.  .  .  .  She  felt  that  she  might 
turn  Tartar  if  Aunt  Adela  scratched  her  just  then — which 
wouldn't  be  fair  to  poor  old  Aunt  Adela.  .  .  .  Besides,  she 
had  no  business  to  keep  Aunt  Adela  waiting.  .  .  .  She 
must  take  the  short  cut.  .  .  . 

She  had  hesitated  because,  though  it  saved  her  a  mile,  it 
was  a  cut  that  ran  across  the  Priory  woods,  driving  a  broad 
grass-way  through  the  heart  of  them,  and  rounding  at  one 
point  the  Priory  garden  itself.  And  yet — it  was  ridiculous 
to  be  late  for  tea,  to  involve  oneself  with  an  irritable  aunt, 
just  because  her  nearest  way  home  skirted  Justin's  prop- 
erty. .  .  .  Would  Justin  be  wandering  in  damp  woods  at 
this  time  o'  day — at  his  tea-time  o'  day?  .  .  .  She  knew 
Justin.  .  .  .  Besides,  what  should  he  do  in  the  woods  ?  He 
didn't  collect  birds'  eggs  any  more.  .  .  . 

She  turned  into  the  shining  chestnut  thickets,  for  she 
knew  the  fox-ways  of  the  undergrowth,  and  emerged  again, 
breathless,  briar-whipped,  into  the  green,  central  glade, 
where  the  grass  was  twenty  feet  wide  and  the  white  violets 
grew.  This  was  her  undoing.  Laura  could  never  resist 
flowers.  If  Laura  were  being  ferried  over  to  hell  she 
would  still  have  plunged  to  the  elbow  in  the  Styx,  I  think, 
after  its  blotched  lilies — and  these  were  violets,  English 
and  very  sweet.  And  they  were  the  first  of  the  year.  Do 
you  think  thre  is  any  one  too  old  and  too  sad  to  pick  white 
violets  when  they  get  the  chance? 

Laura  was  sad  enough,  but  she  was  only  twenty.  For- 
getting her  hurry,  she  stooped  down  and  began  picking 
violets. 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  289 

There  were  so  many  of  them  that  the  ground  was  soon 
covered  with  tiny  short-stalked  bunches,  tied  up  with  Aunt 
Adela's  khaki  knitting  wool. 

The  soft  spring  air  was  like  new  milk  after  the  close, 
people  room  she  had  left.  The  scent  of  the  violets  pleased 
her.  Each  flower  as  she  picked  it  sent  its  ghost,  like  a  little 
white  thought,  into  her  mind,  to  soothe  and  heal  and 
sweeten  it.  She  was  so  blessedly  absorbed,  and  the  grass 
was  so  thick  and  mossy,  that  she  heard  nothing,  neither 
footsteps  nor  creak  of  boots,  till  a  voice,  a  familiar  voice, 
spoke  above  her. 

"Why,  Laura!"  said  the  voice. 

She  was  on  her  feet  in  an  instant,  but  she  was  badly 
startled.  For,  after  all  her  reckonings,  it  was  Justin — 
Justin,  taking  like  herself  his  short  cut  through  the  woods 
to  his  tea — Justin,  whom  she  had  not  seen  for  nearly  a 
year — Justin,  who  was  never  going  to  speak  to  her  again. 

She  gave  him  a  wavering,  frightened  smile — a  smile  that 
deprecated  its  own  existence,  that  assured  him  that  it  held 
no  graceless  hint  of  welcome  or  intimacy,  that  it  continued 
merely  as  the  only  salutation  that  the  lips  on  which  it 
trembled  could  at  the  moment  attempt.  And  with  that 
faded  again  and  left  a  white  face  whiter. 

"Why,  Laura!"  repeated  the  miraculous  Justin,  in  the 
kind,  solemn  voice  that  had  not  altered  for  all  her  wicked- 
ness, for  all  the  war. 

She  found  hurried  words  in  which  to  answer,  excusing 
herself  when  there  was  no  need. 

"I  was  going  home.  And  I  was  late.  So  I  came  this 
way.  I  only  stopped  for  a  moment — to  pick  the 
violets ' ' 

She  stooped  for  her  basket,  huddling  into  it  all  the  little 
bunches  that  lay  on  the  grass.  She  was  thankful  to  have 
a  use  for  her  betraying  hands. 

He  was  watching  her,  but  she  did  not  know  what  he 
thought,  for  she  was  afraid  to  look  up  and  see.  She  had 
her  basket  filled  too  soon,  and  thereupon  she  stood  like  a 


290  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

schoolgirl,  not  knowing  what  to  say  or  do.  She  moved  a 
step  or  two  at  last,  to  enable  him  to  give  her  good-bye  and 
go  his  way.  But  his  way  was  hers,  it  seemed:  and  he 
walked  beside  her  in  silence  down  the  green  grass  lane,  be- 
tween the  whispering,  watching  trees.  If  he  thought  of 
his  tea  he  thought  also,  I  suppose  that  Mrs.  Cloud  would 
keep  it  hot  for  him.  He  was  quite  right :  his  mother  would 
have  kept  it  hot  for  him  till  the  crack  of  doom.  But  it  is 
just  possible  that  he  did  not  think  about  his  tea. 

Laura's  eyes  were  decorously  on  the  increasing  circle  of 
sky  at  the  end  of  the  alley;  yet  with  quick  stolen  glances 
now  and  then  she  gleaned  news  of  him.  She  thought  he 
looked  tired,  older — a  grey  look.  .  .  .  She  thought  he  did 
not  look  well.  .  .  .  She  disliked  his  yellowish  clothes. 
They  did  not  suit  him.  .  .  . 

Well — at  least  she  had  seen  him  in  his  uniform.  .  .  . 
She  had  not  realized  before,  slie  thought  contradictorily, 
how  jolly  the  ugly  uniform  could  look.  .  .  .  She  thought 
how  ordinary  every  other  soldier  she  had  seen  would  look 
beside  him.  .  .  .  She  tried  not  to  be  ridicuously  proud  of 
him,  because  she  had  no  right,  no  right — to  that  exquisite 
pride.  .  .  .  She  thought  that  she  had  not  been  mistaken — 
there  was  no  one  in  the  world  like  him.  .  .  . 

They  came  to  a  footpath  through  the  hazel  underwood 
that  ran  at  right  angles  to  the  broad  grass-way.  She  was 
sure  he  would  make  it  his  excuse  for  leaving  her  if  he  did 
not  want  to  talk.  And  how  should  he  possibly  want  to 
talk  to  her?  .  .  .  But  Justin  swung  past  the  opening  with 
no  more  than  a  switch  with  his  cane  at  the  low-hanging 
catkins  that  sent  the  pollen  in  clouds  into  the  air.  The 
target  of  sky  still  seemed  a  long  way  off.  Almost  she 
could  have  wished  that  he  had  left  her,  the  silence  op- 
pressed her  so.  She  supposed  that  she  ought  to  talk  to 
him  about  the  war.  .  .  .  Ridiculous  phrases  flitted  through 
her  head — 'How  do  you  like  the  trenches?'  'Do  the  guns 
make  much  noise?' — but  she  could  think  of  no  sensible 
opening. 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  291 

At  last  to  her  intense  relief,  for  speech  was  always  as 
much  her  protection  as  silence  was  his,  he  opened  his 
mouth. 

"And  how  have  you  been  rubbing  along?"  said  Justin. 

"Oh,  all  right,"  said  Laura.  Then  brilliantly:  "Have 
you  been  all  right  ? ' ' 

' '  Oh,  quite  all  right, ' '  said  Justin. 

There  was  an  interval  for  meditation. 

"Miss  Adela  pretty  fit?"  enquired  Justin. 

"Oh,  splendid,"  said  Laura. 

"I  should  have  called — but  it's  such  a  short  leave — I 
wish  you'd  explain " 

"Oh,  she  quite  understood,"  said  Laura  too  readily,  and 
felt  the  conversation  sag  in  her  hands  like  a  caught  cricket 
ball.  She  made  an  effort. 

"Have  a  decent  crossing?"  she  hazarded. 

"Quite  decent,"  said  Justin. 

"Oh — good!"  said  Laura. 

They  paused  again. 

Laura  thought  she  would  leave  things  to  him:  she  knew 
by  experience  that  if  he  did  not  want  to  talk  nothing  would 
make  him:  she  did  not  think  he  was  embarrassed,  for  he 
had  always  been  too  absorbed  in  himself  to  be  self-con- 
scious: therefore,  if  he  talked,  it  would  have  some  signifi- 
cance. She  waited,  passively  curious;  for  the  shock  of 
meeting  him  had,  for  the  time,  numbed  her.  She  was  as 
calm  as  is  the  heart  of  a  whirlwind. 

And  soon,  as  she  expected,  he  explained  himself. 

"Mother's  been  looking  out  for  you,"  he  told  her 
severely.  "Why  didn't  you  come?  She  says  you  always 
come  on  Tuesdays." 

'Why  didn't  you  come?'  She  threw  up  her  hands  over 
the  denseness  of  his  Justinity,  as  she  lied  to  him. 

"Oh — I'm  awfully  sorry.  I  didn't  know — I  mean  I 
forgot.  I  mean — I've  been  so  fearfully  busy  this  week." 

"What  with?"  he  enquired. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Laura. 


292  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

"Well,  if  you  can,  you  might  look  in  tomorrow,"  he  de- 
cided. "You  see,  I  have  to  be  out." 

She  glanced  up  at  him :  glanced  down  again.  And  then, 
suddenly,  all  the  dry  deadness  of  her  heart  broke,  like  the 
pope's  staff,  into  bud,  into  little  blossoms  of  laughter,  deli- 
cate bell-flowers  that  rang  out  in  a  thousand  fairy  caril- 
lons of  healing  mirth. 

Dear  old  Justin!  .  .  .  'You  see — I  have  to  be  out.'  So 
exactly  what  Justin  might  have  been  reckoned  upon  to  say. 
.  .  .  Her  lips  quivered:  her  shoulders  shook:  she  was  in 
desperate  danger  of  laughing  aloud.  She  saw  so  clearly  the 
absurdity  of  their  situation  that  it  was  all  at  once  naked 
of  its  embarrassment,  of  its  sting.  She  wanted  to  share 
the  joke  with  him,  but  that  was  impossible.  He  would  not 
have  been  Justin  if  he  could  have  seen  the  funny  side  of 
himself. 

'You  see — I  have  to  be  out.'  .  .  . 

'Yes,  Justin  dear — Yes,  Justin,  dear — I  quite  under- 
stand!' she  crooned  to  herself  with  wicked,  bright-eyed 
merriment. 

"And  the  next  day,"  continued  his  unconsciousness,  "I 
go  back,  you  know. ' ' 

The  bells  stopped  ringing. 

' '  Oh ! ' '  said  Laura  sedately. 

The  circle  of  light  had  grown  into  an  arch  that  was  wide 
as  the  sky.  They  crunched  off  the  soft  grass  on  to  the  chalk 
of  the  road  stretching  north  and  south  of  them  to  Green 
Gates  and  the  Priory. 

She  found  that  they  were  to  shake  hands. 

"Well— so  long!"  said  he. 

"So  long!"  said  she. 

They  went  their  ways. 

And  that  was  the  end,  for  Laura,  of  Justin's  first  leave. 

But  she  felt  better.  If  it  had  done  her  good  to  see  him, 
it  had  done  her  all  the  good  in  the  world,  she  thought,  to 
laugh  at  him. 

What  Justin  thought,  History  does  not  say. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

THE  spring  and  summer  passed  like  one  of  those  inter- 
minable nightmares  whose  horror  is  in  the  fact  that  it  is 
ever  about  to  be  revealed,  and  never  is  revealed,  to  the 
dreamer.  Mrs.  Cloud  and  Laura  opened  their  papers  at 
breakfast,  to  read  and  shudder  and  murmur  mechanically, 
"Their  poor  wives — God  help  them!"  but  the  guilty  sense 
of  reprieve  would  be  gone  before  the  meal  was  ended. 
Fear  was  to  be  their  portion  rather  than  fact:  and  Mrs. 
Cloud,  for  one,  broke  under  the  burden.  She  spoke  little, 
never  of  herself ;  but  she  grew  visibly  older,  turning  under 
Laura's  anxious  eyes  into  a  silent  old  woman,  content  to 
sit  in  the  sun.  But  gradually  Laura  realized  that  she 
was  aware  of  her  own  failing  strength,  that  she  hus- 
banded it  of  set  purpose,  that  her  very  quietude  was  delib- 
erate. When  it  was  necessary  she  had  words  and  counsel. 

She  never  missed  writing  to  her  son — quiet,  cheerful 
letters  in  a  firm  hand.  And  the  answers  she  would  read 
aloud  to  Laura. 

"A  good  boy,  Laura — to  write  so  often.  Three  nights 
without  sleep  again — but  he  writes ! ' ' 

Laura  had  her  secret  marvel  at  it,  at  these  letters,  so 
like  and  so  unlike  Justin.  Their  frequency  amazed  her: 
their  familiar  matter-of-factness  made  her  smile;  but  there 
were  touches  in  them  beyond  her  knowledge  of  him.  He 
did  not  take  his  discomforts  seriously.  There  was  actually 
humour — a  trifle  crude,  more  than  a  trifle  grim — but 
humour.  Once  he  made  fun  of  himself.  And  he  was  anx- 
ious about  his  mother — eloquent  in  each  letter  on  the  ab- 
surdity, nay,  the  sin,  of  worrying.  And  he  wanted  to 
know  how  she  slept.  Once  he  said,  'Tell  Laura  to  look 

293 


294  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

after  you!'  He  said  that!  He  trusted  her,  you  see,  in 
spite  of  everything.  He  trusted  her. 

She  lived  on  that  phrase  for  weeks. 

And  indeed  she  looked  after  Mrs.  Cloud.  She  spent 
more  and  more  of  her  time  at  the  Priory,  bringing  her  war- 
work  with  her,  and  gradually  the  control  of  the  reduced 
household  slipped  into  her  hands.  Mrs.  Cloud's  small  ail- 
ments increased  in  frequency,  and  it  was  natural  that  the 
driven  doctor  and  the  anxious  maid  should  turn  to  Miss 
Laura  rather  than  to  the  invalid.  And  there  was  Timothy. 
Timothy,  rising  five,  with  ideas  of  his  own  ( Coral  cropping 
up  freakishly  in  the  sound  Cloud  soil)  Timothy,  embar- 
rassingly devoted,  and  a  great  deal  too  much  for  his  grand- 
mother, had  become  a  problem:  and  until  the  ideal  nurse 
who  did  not  quarrel  with  Mary  and  did  not  want  special  at- 
tention had  been  discovered  (but  they  were  all  at  muni- 
tions) he  was  inevitably  Laura's  business.  She  undertook, 
at  any  rate,  to  tire  him  out  for  a  couple  of  hours  every 
day,  after  which  'the  temporary,'  a  hare-eyed  child  with 
adenoids,  was  supposed  to  be  able  to  cope  with  him. 

Timothy  enjoyed  that  summer.  He  was  always  more 
than  ready  for  his  stern  Miss  Valentine  to  take  him  out 
for  a  little  exercise.  Timothy's  idea  of  exercise  was  a 
variant  of  tip-and-run  in  the  field  behind  the  barns.  Tim- 
othy tipped  and  Laura  ran.  But  when  human  nature 
dropped  at  last,  protesting,  on  a  haycock,  Timothy  was 
always  kindly  resigned  to  a  rest.  He  would  dig  like  a 
terrier  at  the  next  cock,  till  he  had  shaped  'a  arm-chair' 
into  which  Laura  would  be  inducted  with  much  ceremony 
and  provided  with  a  dock-leaf  fan.  These  were  courtesies 
for  which  stories  ("true  stories,  not  silly  old  fairies,"  was 
the  typical  Cloud  proviso)  were  considered  a  graceful  ac- 
knowledgement. 

Laura,  beautifully  trained  before  a  week  was  out,  would 
accordingly  parade  for  his  criticism  such  desperadoes  of 
antiquity  as  Daniel,  Jack  the  Giant  Killer,  Oliver  Twist, 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  295 

Jonah,  and  invariably  conclude  the  entertainment,  by  re- 
quest, with  that  favourite  legend  of  her  own  childhood — 
'How  Uncle  Justin  threw  the  porridge  at  Miss  Beamish!' 

"Well "  and  Timothy  would  squirm  with  excite- 
ment, "once  upon  a  time — when  Uncle  Justin-at-the-war 

was  quite  a  little  boy "and  so  on  to  the  enthralling 

catastrophe : 

"And  there  was  poor  Miss  Beamish  with  her  hair  all 
messed " 

"He  was  awful — wasn't  he?" 

"Awful  isn't  the  word!" 

"Umn.     Go  on." 

"Well— that's  about  all." 

"Is  it?" 

"Yes." 

"Umn."  Then,  with  the  careful  artlessness  of  child- 
hood— "Well — shall  we  play  a  game  now?" 

"What  shall  we  play?" 

"Well — you  be  Miss  Beamish  and  I'll  be  Uncle  Justin." 

And  when  Laura  had  been  realistically  pelted  with  hay, 
Timothy,  still  devising  deviltry,  would  be  suddenly  fatigued 
and  would  drop  himself,  like  a  toy  he  was  tired  of  carry- 
ing, solidly  into  Laura's  lap,  and  fall  asleep  there  and 
then,  his  knobby  little  grass-stained  knees  pressed  against 
her,  his  hands,  at  the  least  movement,  tightening  on  her 
arm. 

And  while  he  slept  and  long  after  he  was  awake  again 
and  had  run  into  his  dinner,  she  could  feel  those  small 
hands  clutching,  not  her  arm,  but  her  very  heart,  and  won- 
der that  in  the  touch  there  could  be  such  pleasure  and  such 
pain. 

Children — the  very  word  was  music.  .  .  .  What  must  it 
be  like  to  have  children  of  one's  own — one's  own?  .  .  . 

But  that  was  one  of  the  things,  she  supposed,  that  she 
would  have  to  do  without — ju§t  have  to  do  without — unless 
.  .  .  unless,  .  .  , 


296  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

And  then  the  wild  thoughts  that  breed  in  a  mind  grown 
conscious  of  its  needs,  its  spiritual  and  bodily  needs,  would 
rise  in  battle  against  her. 

If  Justin  didn't  want  her?  .  .  .  She  was  young.  ...  It 
was  a  big  world  .  .  .  must  she  starve?  .  .  . 

And  then  she  would  shiver  away  again  from  such  rescue, 
perceiving  that  Justin,  living  or  dead,  was  like  a  sword 
between  her  and  any  other  man;  that  isolation,  right  and 
natural  and  torturing  as  her  needs  were  for  love  and  chil- 
dren and  the  warmth  of  a  common  hearth,  was  the  price 
she  must  pay  for  all  that  he  had  taught  her — he,  who 
knew  so  little  of  what  he  taught.  And  perceived  also  that 
if  she  were  not  to  be  happy — as  she  reckoned  happiness — it 
was  not  his  fault,  but  the  fault  of  her  own  nature.  She 
had  railed  so  often  at  his  un-imagination — but  how  much 
greater  was  her  own,  that  could  conceive  no  happiness 
apart  from  him?  Yet  knowing  at  last  her  own  nature, 
could  she  wish  it  changed?  If  she  were  offered  Lethe, 
would  she  drink  ? 

She  believed  not. 

And  then  she  would  be  filled  with  a  fierce  disgust  at  her- 
self that  she  could  be  thus  occupied  with  her  personal  af- 
fairs, with  the  infinitely  unimportant  pains  and  perplexi- 
ties of  her  own  toy  tragedy,  when,  if  she  stood  quiet  and 
the  day  were  still,  she  could  hear,  so  far  away  that  it  was 
less  sound  than  a  tremor  of  the  air,  the  mutter  of  the 
Flanders  guns. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

JUSTIN'S  next  leave  was  nominally  due  in  June.  In  Sep- 
tember he  began  to  be  hopeful  of  getting  it :  his  Christmas 
epistles  were  models  of  linguistic  control:  and  he  arrived 
soon  after  New  Year  to  laugh  at  his  sympathetically  indig- 
nant household  for  taking  any  notice  of  anything  he  might 
have  said  in  a  letter:  and,  sobering,  to  be  angry  with  his 
mother  for  waiting  at  home  for  him  instead  of  going  to 
Bournemouth  like  a  sensible  woman  till  the  raids  and  the 
fogs  were  over.  He  could  have  wired!  She  could  have 
got  back  in  half  a  day :  or  he  could  have  gone  down  to  her, 
even  if  it  were  jollier,  in  a  way,  to  spend  his  leave  at  home. 
Laura  ought  to  have  packed  her  off  long  ago,  instead  of 
letting  her  sit  day  after  day  on  that  windy  hill-top  catch- 
ing influenza! 

But  Mrs.  Cloud,  sitting  up  in  bed  and  coughing  between 
her  smiles,  would  not  have  Laura  blamed.  She  did  not 
know  what  she  and  Timothy  should  have  done  without 
Laura — and  would  Laura  run  down  once  again,  dear,  to 
see  that  Mary  understands  about  an  early  lunch?  "And 
now,  my  son,  let  me  look  at  you " 

Laura  slipped  away. 

It  was  a  dreamlike  week.  It  was  so  utterly  incredible  to 
her  that  circumstances  should  have  once  more  established 
her  at  the  Priory,  that  she  could  confront  the  situation 
with  comparative  calmness,  could  even  put  aside  her  human 
prerogative  of  saying  suspiciously  to  happiness,  "Yester- 
day you  were  not!  Tomorrow,  where  will  you  be?"  and 
bask  as  complacently  as  a  cat  or  a  flower  in  the  spell  of 
sunshine.  But  she  could  not  believe  it  to  be  real. 

For  she  found  herself  sitting  down  to  meals  with  Justin, 
catching  scraps  of  his  talk  with  his  mother,  making  no 

297 


298  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

bones  about  sending  him  out  of  the  room  when  she  thought 
Mrs.  Cloud  had  had  enough  excitement,  finding  him  ten 
minutes  later,  when  she  had  pulled  the  blind  and  settled 
Mrs.  Cloud  for  a  nap  and  had  come  downstairs  again,  tap- 
ping the  barometer,  raking  the  bookshelves  or  lounging  by 
the  fire,  abstractedly  admiring  the  set  of  his  puttees,  bored 
by  the  weather,  very  ready  to  talk  to  her.  That,  you  see, 
was  what  amazed  her.  She  could  understand  his  accept- 
ance of  her,  with  reserve,  as  a  necessary  evil  while  his 
mother  was  ill ;  but — he  was  ready  to  talk  to  her !  He  was 
himself  with  her,  unembarrassed,  friendly,  apparently  un- 
conscious that  he  had  a  right  to  be  otherwise.  It  was  un- 
believably generous.  It  was  in  every  way  too  good  to  be 
true.  She  could  not  understand  it  in  the  least.  It  was 
the  most  astonishing  thing  that  had  ever  happened.  It 
took  her  just  five  minutes  to  become  entirely  accustomed  to 
it. 

Yet  she  found  that  in  his  talk  he  was  gradually  and 
unwittingly  explaining  himself  to  her.  He  was  on  a  holi- 
day :  he  wanted  to  be  happy.  He  was  unconsciously  doing 
what  she  was  doing  consciously.  He  was  trying  to  put 
aside  all  that  could  spoil  his  respite. 

How  great  that  respite  was  he  told  her,  not  knowing 
that  he  told  her,  in  a  hundred  tragi-comic  ways.  She  was 
ready  to  cry  over  his  little  comfortable  movements  in  his 
chair,  his  new,  observant  appreciation  of  the  decencies  of 
life.  His  extraordinary  interest  in  the  concerns  of  the 
Gedges  and  the  Clouds  and  the  Mouldes,  expressed  as  it 
was  with  all  the  old  lordliness  of  manner,  was  so  funny 
that,  but  for  the  lump  in  her  throat,  she  could  have  laughed 
ohitright.  Dear  Justin — he  had  always  been  thorough ! 
.  .  .  And  then  her  attention  would  be  caught  afresh  by 
some  unwonted  gesture,  some  unfamiliar  sentiment:  and 
she  would  tell  herself  anxiously  that  her  disturbance  was 
out  of  all  proportion  to  such  causes.  They  were  trifles, 
merest  trifles  .  .  .  but  they  pained  and  touched  her.  It 
struck  her  that  he  was  boisterous  in  his  laughter  over  very 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  299 

simple  jokes.  He  moved  more  heavily,  had  acquired  a 
nervous  trick  of  the  hands.  He  was  patently  anxious  to 
put  the  war  out  of  his  mind,  and  it  was  obvious  that  he 
could  not  do  it.  They  would  find  themselves  talking  of  the 
war,  he  speaking  as  if  compelled,  yet  with  increasing  un- 
willingness, flagging  into  dull  silence,  and  then,  rousing 
himself,  beginning  to  talk  of  it  again,  formally,  lifelessly, 
incessantly.  Bad  for  him — she  knew  that  it  was  bad  for 
him  .  .  .  She  wondered  if  he  thought  her  efforts  to  divert 
him  mere  callousness?  .  .  .  Yet  surely  he  must  have  his 
holiday  in  peace?  ...  It  was  their  business — hers  and  his 
mother's — to  see  that  he  went  back  to  his  intolerable  duty 
with  an  aired  and  rested  mind.  But  how?  .  .  .  "Was  it, 
she  wondered,  better  for  him  first  to  disburden  himself  as 
he  wanted,  yet  did  not  want,  to  do?  .  .  . 

But  at  that  she  was,  again,  uneasily  aware  of  change  in 
him,  of  a  new  reserve  between  them,  a  reserve  born,  not  of 
their  personal  estrangement,  but  of  an  experience  unshared. 
Where  she  had  imagined,  he  had  seen.  It  was  not  wonder- 
ful if,  subconsciously,  he  distrusted  her  capacity,  the  ca- 
pacity of  any  safe  and  sheltered  woman,  to  enter  into  his 
memories,  see  with  his  eyes.  But  she,  acknowledging,  not 
the  justice,  but  the  inevitability  of  his  attitude,  thought 
only,  'What  does  that  matter?  The  thing  is  to  make  him 
rest.  I'm  a  poor  creature  if  I  can't  get  him  out  of  him- 
self.' .  .  . 

And  on  the  third  day  she  got  her  opportunity. 

The  second  had  passed  in  a  whirl  of  excitement  and  laugh- 
ter (only  a  little  forced)  and  pleasure  at  his  return,  and 
anxiety  and  fondness  for  his  mother,  in  silent  meals  that 
had  given  Laura  her  first  inkling  of  the  cloud  upon  him. 
On  the  third  day  he  had  gone  to  town  to  do  his  necessary 
shopping,  and,  in  delighted  extravagance,  had  brought  back 
half  Covent  Garden  for  Mrs.  Cloud,  and  chocolates  for  no 
one  in  particular,  and  complicated  mechanical  toys  that 
did  not  appease  Timothy.  For  Timothy,  playing  second 
fiddle  for  the  first  time  since  his  grandmother  had  adopted 


300  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

him,  had  a  grievance  against  his  Uncle  Justin.  Timothy 
gave  Laura  a  bad  moment  as  she  put  him  to  bed. 

"Did  you  say  thank-you  to  Uncle  Justin  when  you  said 
good-night?" 

"Don't  like  Uncle  Justin."  Timothy  wriggled  from 
under  the  towel. 

"Oh,  Timothy,  when  he  brought  you  that  lovely  motor- 
car!" 

"Don't  like  old  motor-car.  Want  to  see  the  birds  in 
Uncle  Justin's  room." 

"What,  my  duck?" 

"Birds  sitting  on  eggs  in  Uncle  Justin's  room.  Grannie 
told  me,  only  they're  locked  up  till  Uncle  Justin  comes 
home. ' ' 

"Grannie  said  that?    Are  you  sure,  Timmy?" 

' '  Yes,  and  said  Uncle  Justin  would  show  me.  And  Uncle 
Justin  wouldn't.  Said — said — Uncle  Justin  said " 

"Said  what,  Timothy?" 

Timothy  scowled  adorably. 

"Don't  like  Uncle  Justin.    Where's  my  motor-car?" 

"But  Timothy " 

"Want  my  motor-car." 

And  Laura,  having  been  acquainted  with  that  particular 
tone  in  the  Cloud  voice  for  some  thirteen  years,  gave  him 
his  motor-car  and  said  no  more. 

But  she  went  down  to  dinner  and  Justin  with  bright 
eyes  and  a  flushed  face,  and  had  little  to  say  as  she  sat 
thinking  across  to  him  over  the  pot  of  daffodils. 

'So — so  you  never  told  your  mother!  But  you  tell  her 
everything!  It  was  decent  of  you — it  was  good  of  you — 
not  to  tell  your  mother.  .  .  . '  And  then,  with  such  a  pang 

of  pride  in  him,  'It  was  like  you.  Any  one  else It 

was  awfully  good  of  you  not  to  tell  your  mother.'  .  .  . 

And  that  evening,  as  they  came  down  from  Mrs.  Cloud's 
room  (Mrs.  Cloud  hoped  to  get  up  the  next  day)  she  found 
herself,  because  that  tale  of  Timothy's  had  given  her  the 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  301 

strangest  courage,  able  to  find  the  right  words,  the  right 
silences,  able  to  unlock  him  at  last. 

And  he  spoke — to  the  room,  to  the  fire,  to  his  own  hands, 
rather  than  to  her — of  certain  things  daily  seen  and  heard 
and  endured:  spoke  with  a  flatness  of  tone,  a  baldness  of 
phrase,  that,  to  her  at  least,  underlined  his  facts  as  no 
eloquence  could  have  done.  He  doled  out  horror  like  a 
school-marm  teaching  dull  children  to  read. 

'The  cat  ate  the  rat.' 

"Stuck  him  up  against  a  wall  and  shot  him." 

"Wiped  out  forty " 

"And  after  that  there  wasn't  much  Fritz  left!" 

And,  urged  on  as  it  were,  by  her  quivering  receptiveness, 
spoke  finally  of  experiences,  not  (she  thanked  God)  his 
own,  yet  of  his  own  first-hand  knowledge:  and  found  no 
other  way  to  tell  her  than  with  a  hard  stare,  in  direct  and 
brutal  sentences,  as  if  he  thought — 

'Well,  if  it  comes  to  that,  why  shouldn't  you  know?  Do 
you  good — you  home  people!' 

She  knew  that  his  contempt  was  unconscious,  impersonal ; 
that  she  had  no  right  to  wince  at  it;  nevertheless,  it  hurt. 
She  wanted  to  say,  'It's  not  fair.  I  do  understand.  As 
if  I  wouldn't  cut  off  my  hands  to  be  there  instead  of  you! 
It's  you  who'll  never  understand,'  and  shook  off  that  ego- 
tism to  listen  to  him  again,  and  had  her  reward  when  he 
ended,  quite  naturally  and  simply,  in  turning  from  the 
subject  at  last  with  that  air  of  relief  for  which  she  had 
worked  and  hoped,  with  a  comfortable  relaxation  of  his 
whole  body,  and  a  smile  that  told  her  that  he  was  feeling 
better  and  was  ready  to  be  amused. 

Ten  minutes  later,  with  the  victorious  inconsistency  of 
their  race,  they  were  shaking  with  laughter  over  the  new 
Bairnsfather  drawings. 

The  next  day — already  it  was  his  last  day  but  one — was 
a  festival:  Mrs.  Cloud  was  to  come  down  to  tea  and  to 
stay  up  to  dinner. 


302  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

She  had  no  business  to  do  either,  as  she  and  Laura  and 
the  doctor  knew,  but — Mrs.  Cloud  was  coming  down ! 

They  bargained  with  the  doctor. 

If  it  were  a  fine  warm  day —  (But  it  was  wet  and 
cold.) 

If  she  kept  quiet  all  the  morning — ("Then  you  must 
look  after  Justin,  Laura!") 

If  she  promised  to  go  to  bed  again  really  early 

If— if 

In  short Mrs.  Cloud  was  coming  down. 

Hard  upon  Laura  to  be  bothered  with  Justin,  wasn't  it? 
When  she  was  so  particularly  busy;  when  she  had  prom- 
ised the  Depot  more  work  than  she  knew  how  to  get 
through.  But  she  made  no  objection  whatever:  came 
downstairs  to  him  with  obliging  readiness:  sat  listening 
with  an  air  that  might  have  been  mistaken  for  satisfaction, 
to  the  windy  rain  thudding  at  the  windows.  No  going  out 
in  such  rain ! 

She  took  up  her  half-finished  sock  and  then  had  to  put  it 
down  again  to  help  Justin.  Justin  was  raking  through  the 
bookshelves. 

"Here — what  can  I  take  back?  Something  solid.  I'm 
sick  to  death  of  sevenpennies.  Mother  is  comical,  you 
know.  She's  got  twice  my  brains — but  the  books  she 
chooses!"  He  laughed:  "I  know  she  goes  by  the  cover." 

"You've  read  all  these."  Laura  ran  her  hand  along  the 
shelves.  "No  good  giving  you  poetry,  I  suppose?"  She 
pulled  out  Men  and  Women.  "Remember  how  Oliver  was 
always  spouting  the  Italian  things?" 

He  sighed. 

' '  He  gave  me  that  book  too,  poor  devil ! ' ' 

She  looked  at  him,  startled. 

"Why— what?" 

"Didn't  you  see  it?  Artists'  Rifles.  Shot,  his  first 
week  out." 

"Olfcarf" 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  sad  enough  smile. 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  303 

"Brings  it  home  a  bit,  doesn't  it?" 

She  shook  her  head  incredulously. 

"I  never  saw  it.  I  never  knew."  And  then:  "His 
poor  wife " 

Justin  lit  his  pipe. 

"I  only  met  her  once.     She's  married  again,  I  believe." 

There  was  a  silence,  with  Laura  whipping  over  page 
after  page  of  the  volume  in  her  hand.  Suddenly  she  flamed 
out — 

"Such  women — such  women They  make  you 

ashamed."  Her  eyes  were  pitiless. 

Justin  frowned  thoughtfully. 

"I  don't  know.  I  don't  suppose  he  left  her  much  to 
live  on.  And  she  was  an  awfully  pretty  girl." 

But  at  that,  after  one  look  flashed  at  him,  she  stared  the 
more  resolutely  at  her  book,  lest  he  should  see  the  amaze- 
ment, the  quick  incredulous  appreciation,  in  her  eyes. 
There  had  been  no  superiority  in  his  voice — nothing  but 
the  real  tolerance  of  comprehension!  It  was  not  he,  but 
she,  Laura,  who  stood  reproved  for  a  lack  of  common 
charity.  .  .  .  Poor — young — an  awfully  pretty  girl!  .  .  . 
He  was  right.  ...  It  was  not  for  them  to  judge.  .  .  .  But 
what  had  happened  to  Justin  that  he  could  see  it  and 
say  it?  ...  In  a  bewilderment  so  near  happiness  that  it 
frightened  her,  she  began  to  talk  at  random. 

"Yes — yes — I  suppose  so.  "Well — will  you  take  it  then? 
There's  heaps  of  reading  in  it." 

He  laughed. 

"Too  much  for  me.  I  started  Bordello  once.  Pity  he 
would  try  to  rhyme  prose  instead  of  singing  songs."  He 
looked  over  her  shoulder,  his  eyes  caught  by  the  italics  that 
laced  the  close  print  like  birds'  voices  ringing  through  a 

wood.  "Ah — that's  better!  Flower  o'  the  rose 

What  is  it?" 

"Lippi.  You  know!  Oliver  was  mad  about  it.  Oliver 
always  said  that  Browning  was  a  painter  spoiled  himself. ' ' 

He  nodded. 


304  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

"Shouldn't  wonder.  Oliver  generally  knew  what  he  was 
talking  about.  That  now — 

Flower  o'  the  peach, 
Death  for  us  all,  and  his  own  life  for  each! 

Now  that's  good.  That's  likeable.  That's  poetry  and 
truth  too.  But  the  rest  goes  wrenching  and  jerking  along 
like — like  Vulcan.  Club-foot  divinity." 

Again  she  was  astonished.  It  was  what  she  had  always 
thought — but  that  he  should  think  so  too — should  put  it 
into  words  for  her — was  epoch-making.  She  was  over- 
whelmed by  the  remorseful  conviction  that  she  had  always 
and  systematically  undervalued  him.  She  was  so  much 
occupied  by  that  discovery  that  she  did  not  notice,  till  he 
called  to  her  to  "listen  to  this  rot"  that  the  book  had  slid 
from  her  hand  to  his,  that  he  was  settling  into  his  chair, 
preparing  to  see-saw  delightfully,  abolishing  Browning  and 
relenting  to  Browning,  for  the  rest  of  the  morning. 

It  was  not  quite  what  Laura  wanted;  but  it  was  very 
pleasant. 

And  she  finished  her  sock. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

AND  so,  before  he  had  more  than  arrived,  as  it  seemed, 
Justin's  last  day  came. 

He  was  to  catch  the  four-twenty.  Mrs.  Cloud,  refusing 
to  admit  fatigue  after  her  successful  evening  on  the  sofa, 
was  planning  to  be  up  again — down,  at  least,  for  lunch — 
ready  to  see  the  poor  boy  off.  But  Justin  decreed  other- 
wise. Justin,  painfully  made  aware  on  this  last  visit  how 
weak  the  flesh  had  grown  of  that  utterly  willing  spirit,  was 
firm  with  his  mother.  Get  up — to  see  him  off?  He  would 
like  to  see  her  try!  There  was  Robert  to  see  him  off  and 
old  Mary,  wasn't  there?  And  Laura?  Pack?  Now  did 
his  mother  think  he  should  let  her  pack  for  him!?  There 
were  boots,  for  instance,  any  one  of  which  weighed  more 
than  his  mother.  Perhaps  his  mother  would  like  to  clean 
them  for  him  first?  No  doubt! 

He  outlined  his  ideas. 

They  would  spend  a  quiet  morning  together,  and  after 
lunch  she  was  to  be  good  and  settle  down  to  her  nap.  Of 
course  he  would  run  up  before  he  left  and  say  good-bye 
again — what  did  she  think?  But  then  she  must  promise 
him  to  go  to  sleep,  really  to  go  to  sleep — no  slippings  out 
of  bed  at  the  sound  of  carriage  wheels — no  surreptitious 
waving  from  behind  window  curtains.  What?  Did  she 
think  he  didn't  know  her  little  ways? 

He  sat  with  her,  as  he  had  promised,  till  she  fell  into  a 
light  drowse,  and  then  slipped  away  cautiously  to  his  own 
room. 

Laura,  sitting  in  the  parlour  below,  her  eyes  on  a  book, 
her  ears  a-prick  at  every  sound,  gave  a  sigh  of  relief  as 
she  heard  his  tread  and  the  thud  of  his  baggage  on  the 
floor.  He  had  gone  to  his  packing  ...  he  would  come 

305 


306  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

soon  now  ...  a  matter  of  moments  .  .  .  for  he  always 
packed  as  if  he  were  cocking  hay.  .  .  .  Ah — she  thought  so 
.  .  .  his  door  was  opening  ...  he  was  coming  downstairs. 
.  .  .  She  could  afford  at  last  to  ignore  the  clock — that  stolid 
thief  who  had  impoverished  her,  filching  one  by  one 
twenty  minutes  of  the  hoarded  sixty  that  were  hers. 

He  paused  in  the  hall  long  enough  to  give  her  a  pang. 
He  was  not  going  out? — to  the  stables?  Yet  she  was  able 
to  look  up  indifferently  when  he  opened — at  last — the  par- 
lour door,  and  came  in. 

"Finished?"  She  smiled  at  him  pleasantly  with  an  air 
of  temporarily  relinquishing  her  book,  of  being  very  ready 
to  return  to  it  though,  if  he  did  not  want  to  talk.  She  had 
been  well  drilled. 

However,  he  was  communicative. 

"There  was  hardly  anything — I'm  not  taking  much. 
Oh,  by  the  way — I've  left  some  boots — to  be  re-soled — in 
trees — you  might  tell  Mother.  At  least " 

"Oh,  111  see  to  it,"  said  Laura  easily.     "Heeled  too?" 

"I  think  so.  Oh — and  there  are  some  things — in  the 
wardrobe — want  seeing  to — want  cleaning."  He  elabo- 
rated his  directions. 

A  pause  ensued,  the  inane  pause  that  so  often  preludes  a 
leave-taking.  He  walked  about  the  room.  She  read  her 
book.  The  clock  ticked  between  them,  saying  'your  turn — 
your  turn,'  and  each  waited  for  the  other  to  speak. 

Justin  bethought  himself  first. 

"I  say — what  about  the  trap?  Has  somebody  told  Rob- 
ert?" 

Laura  nodded. 

"I  told  him.     Four  o'clock.     Time  enough?" 

"Heaps.  You're  fast."  He  tinkered  with  the  hands: 
and  so — having  arrived  at  the  hearth-rug  and  the  second 
armchair — sat  down. 

She  gave  him  a  quick  little  glance  of  delight.  He  was 
making  himself  comfortable!  .  .  .  He  had  crossed  his 
hands  under  his  head:  was  leaning  back:  was  looking  at 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  307 

her.  .  .  .  That  meant  that  he  was  ready  to  talk.  .  .  .  She 
leant  back  in  her  turn,  her  book  closed  over  her  hand. 

"When's  the  next  leave,  Justin?" 

"Lord  knows!"  he  laughed.  "You  ought  to  have  more 
sense,  Laura.  That's  the  sort  of  insatiable  thing  Mother 
says. ' ' 

Laura  laughed  too,  a  touch  of  vexed  colour  in  her  cheeks. 
She  did  not  often  trip. 

But  he  continued,  always  unconscious — 

"Isn't  Mother  delicious  about  this  war? — this  infamous 
conspiracy  of  a  Europe  that  ought  to  know  better  against 
my  peace  and  person?  You  know — I  never  knew  before 
what  claws  Mother  had.  The  bloodthirsty  things  she  says ! 
And  means  too — bless  her!  Oh,  it's  all  very  well  to  laugh, 
Laura!  That's  just  what  Mother  complains  of.  People 
don't  realize  how  serious  things  are.  A  bullet  might  hit 
me!"  He  chuckled  over  his  joke. 

Laura's  laughter  was  an  excellent  imitation  of  the  real 
thing. 

He  grew  sober  again. 

"I  say — I  suppose  influenza  always  does  pull  people 
down  so?  She  doesn't  look  at  all  fit." 

"It's  not  the  influenza.  It's  the  war.  It's  the  strain — 
the  sitting  still "  she  broke  off. 

"From  her  letters  you'd  say  she  was  flourishing.  I 

didn't  realize "  He  hesitated  a  moment.  Then — "I 

say — you  might  send  me  a  line  sometimes — on  your 
own " 

He  did  not  see  her  nod.  Expecting  an  answer,  he 
glanced  up  enquiringly  to  catch  a  look  on  her  face  that 
set  him  thinking.  When  he  spoke  again  his  tone  had  al- 
tered— Mrs.  Cloud  had  dropped  out  of  sight. 

"Will  you?  Don't  forget.  One  likes  getting  letters  out 
there." 

She  flushed  a  sudden  scarlet. 

"I  will.  Of  course  I  will.  I  would  have  before — if  I'd 
thought — if  I'd  dreamed  you  wanted — if  you'd  said " 


308  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

She  tangled  herself  into  silence.  But  it  was  a  silence  that 
was  not  pause  but  preparation,  preliminary,  the  recession 
of  the  sea  between  wave  and  wave.  Here  was  her  chance. 
.  .  .  For  this  she  had  prayed.  .  .  .  He  was  giving  her  her 
chance!  .  .  .  She  would  take  it.  ...  She  would  not  be 
cowardly,  nor  falsely  ashamed.  .  .  .  She  would  take  her 
chance.  .  .  . 

"Justin — I  did  write.  I  tried  to  write  to  you.  I  tore 
it  up.  I  thought  you'd  never  listen.  I  wanted  to  explain 
— about  that  wicked  thing  I  did.  Justin — I  wanted  to  say 
— I  want  to  say "  She  paused.  Her  face  was  burn- 
ing. Her  lips  were  dry.  The  shaping  of  words  was  diffi- 
cult. She  found  herself  looking  to  him  for  help. 

He,  too,  had  coloured;  but  his  eyes  were  kind.  He  ut- 
tered incredible  words — 

"It's  all  right,  Laura.     Don't  worry." 

She  could  not  comprehend.     She  stumbled  on  again. 

" — to  say  I'm  sorry.  You'll  never  know  how  sorry  I 
am.  I'd  no  shadow  of  right  to  do  it.  I  see  that  now." 

She  stopped  abruptly,  believing  she  saw  in  his  quick 
movement — he  had  risen  from  his  chair  and  was  fidgeting 
with  the  toys  on  the  mantel — his  man's  apprehension  of  a 
scene.  She  watched  him,  absurdly  occupied  in  piling 
matches,  spilliken  fashion:  watched  and  waited  till  she 
could  wait  no  longer. 

"Justin "  she  petitioned. 

He  turned.  He  was  smiling  at  her — shyly,  significantly, 
half-laughing. 

"Don't  worry,  Laura,"  he  said  again. 

His  meaning  was  obvious  enough,  yet  she  stared  at  him, 
too  incredulous  to  feel  relief  or  contentment  or  triumph — 
any  of  the  emotions  she  had  a  right  to  feel. 

"Do  you  mean — is  it  possible — you  don't  mind  any 
more  ? ' ' 

"Not  much,"  he  confessed. 

"You've  got  over  it — that  I  smashed  it — your  eggs — the 
collection — the  only  thing  you  ever  cared  about?" 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  309 

' '  Oh,  look  here — I  'm  not  a  fool, ' '  he  protested.  ' '  I  never 
made  such  a  God  Almighty  out  of  them  as  that!" 

"Oh,  Justin,  you  did!"  cried  Laura. 

It  was  tactless;  but  she  was  too  relieved  to  be  careful. 
And  yet  a  little  blank — a  little  sore.  It  was  strange  to  feel 
the  nightmare  of  two  years  proved  dream-stuff,  swept  aside, 
nullified  in  a  moment,  with  a  laugh.  ...  It  had  been  real 
enough  to  her.  .  .  .  She  had  paid,  she  was  still  paying,  it 
seemed,  for  what  he  had  long  ago  forgotten.  .  .  .  Somehow 
— it  didn't  seem  fair.  .  .  . 

Justin's  voice  recalled  her  thoughts,  shifted  them  from 
herself  to  him.  Her  soreness  passed  as  she  listened  to  him, 
grown  serious  again.  He  was  explaining  himself  to  her, 
slowly,  with  naive  interest. 

"I  suppose  I  did  go  off  the  tracks  a  bit.  A  thing  takes 
hold  of  you,  somehow.  Not  the  eggs — the  collecting.  Any- 
thing would  have  done  as  well  as  eggs.  It  just  happened 
to  be  eggs.  Of  course — now — I  admit  it  was  absurd.  But 
the  whole  business — it  made  one's  days  so  full.  It  was 
ripping  to  feel  so  keen.  And  when  you  smashed  them — 
there  was  a  hole  in  the  world.  Nothing  to  fill  it.  I  felt 
lost — soured — I  hated  you.  But  when  the  war  began  all 
that  dwindled.  The  war — but  we  talked  about  it  the  other 
day.  It's  gone.  Blown  away.  And  now — I  don't  care 
any  more.  Not  a  ha '-penny  cuss.  Queer,  isn't  it?  So 
you  needn't  worry.  I  never  think  of  it.  But  what  I  do 

think  sometimes — what  I've  never  understood "  He 

stopped  in  front  of  her,  staring  down  at  her  with  puzzled 
eyes — "Laura,  what  on  earth  made  you  do  it?" 

She  flushed. 

"It  wasn't  temper.     It  wasn't  cattishness. " 

"No.     I  knew  that,  you  know,  all  the  time — really." 

She  hesitated  painfully — groping  for  the  convincing 
word. 

"It  was Because Oh,  Justin,  you  know  what 

you  said  yourself,  the  other  day — about  the  war  altering 
people — altering  you,  even.  Oh,  can't  you  see?  I  wanted 


810  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

to  do — for  you — what  the  war  has  done.  I  wasn't  big 
enough,  I  made  an  insane  mess  of  it.  But  that's  what  I 
tried  to  do." 

She  stopped,  her  eyes  on  her  hands  that  trembled  in  her 
lap. 

"But  why?"  he  said,  "but  why?" 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  his  patiently,  letting  him  see  all  he 
chose,  before  she  dropped  them  again. 

The  silence  that  lengthened  between  them  was  heavy,  but 
not  hostile.  It  brooded,  continued,  till  she  imagined,  she 
dared  to  believe,  that  he  was  remembering,  understanding, 
filling  in  gaps. 

He  gave  a  great  restless  sigh  at  last,  and  moved  away. 

"We  made  a  fine  old  muddle  of  it  all,"  he  said. 

Laura  had  no  words. 

"Didn't  we?"  he  appealed  to  her. 

She  gave  him  a  rueful  little  smile. 

"I   suppose "     His   thoughts   sent   him   with   long 

strides  up  and  down  and  up  and  down  the  room — brought 
him  to  a  standstill  at  last  before  Laura  in  her  chair, 
thought-bound  too,  yet  more  at  peace  than  he. 

"I  suppose "  he  began  again:  and  then,  "Laura, 

what  do  you  think?" 

She  laughed  at  him  then,  openly — a  little  fearless  laugh 
of  pure  amusement.  Here  was  a  novel  gambit!  "I 
think,"  he  would  begin,  deceptively  deprecatory;  but  he 
had  never  before  said,  "What  do  you  think?" 

He  ignored  her  laughter,  absently,  as  a  nothing,  a  drift 
of  down,  a  puff  of  smoke  from  the  wind-teased  fire.  He 
was  more  deeply  engaged.  She  had  set  him  pondering — 
wondering — and  now,  with  an  amazing,  wise  simplicity 
that  honoured  him  and  her,  he  showed  her  where  she  had 
led  him,  stated  his  difficulty. 

"Do  you  think  it's  right  to  marry  as  people  do  abroad — 
arranged — you  know,  without  falling  in  love  ? ' ' 

She  was  slow  in  answering.  She  had  her  hope  to  strangle 
— her  hope,  the  child  of  her  love.  She  had  to  bury  it  deep, 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  311 

to  disown  it  utterly,  as  a  crazed  and  shameful  bastard. 
But  she  did  answer  at  last,  faithfully,  as  she  would  have 
had  him  answer  her. 

"It's  the  unforgivable  sin,"  said  Laura. 

And  he  was  not  content.  It  was  what  he  expected,  what 
he  wanted.  It  confirmed  him,  justified  him,  was  his  own 
definite  belief.  But  it  disappointed  him.  He  had  wanted 
opposition,  that  he  might  overcome  it.  Her  certainty  dis- 
concerted him,  caused  him  to  feel  curiously  aggrieved. 
How  could  she  be  so  sure?  .  .  .  One  laid  down  hard  and 
fast  rules;  but  there  would  always  be  exceptional  cases. 
.  .  .  Was  there,  after  all,  no  middle  way?  .  .  . 

As  if  she  had  known  his  thoughts  she  began  to  speak  her 
own,  freely  and  easily,  as  they  came  to  her.  For  she  had 
gained  something  in  the  last  minute,  and  she  knew  it. 
Beggared  she  might  be — but  she  was  free — free  at  last  to  be 
herself  with  Justin — hoping  nothing — fearing  nothing. 

"After  all,"  she  meditated,  "you  say  'falling  in  love.' 
But  what  do  you  mean?  "Where  will  you  draw  the  line? 
What  is  love?  Are  there  two  people  alive  who  mean  pre- 
cisely the  same  thing  ?  And  yet  it  is  the  same  thing.  Just 
as  all  the  gods — are  God.  Manifested,"  she  smiled  over 
her  long  words — "in  endless  diversity.  Lancelot  and 
Guinevere — Darby  and  Joan.  But  it's  all  love." 

He  half  listened,  her  words  interlacing  his  thought  like 
woof  threading  a  web.  What,  after  all,  did  he  mean — did 
he  want?  .  .  .  Yesterday's  half  forgotten  verses  flickered 
upon  his  mind — 

Flower  o'  the  'broom?    Maybe.  .  .  . 

Flower  oy  the  pine?  Not  that,  at  least!  .  .  .  But  what 
did  he  want?  .  .  .  Romance,  he  supposed.  .  .  .  Yes,  he 
asked  of  Life  romance.  .  .  .  And  she  tossed  him — Laura! 
.  .  .  With  such  an  air,  too,  of  knowing  what  was  good  for 
him!  .  .  .  Other  men  adventured  as  they  chose  .  .  .  over 
hell — under  heaven  .  .  .  but  Life  had  always  grand- 
mothered him,  he  thought,  with  a  new  resentful  flash  of 
insight. 


312  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

Romance  .  .  .  the  ideal  woman  .  .  .  with  mystery  in  her 
eyes.  .  .  .  Yet  would  he  after  all  find  a  position  of  perpet- 
ual adoration  comfortable?  .  .  .  Would  Romance  darn  his 
trousers  when  they  rubbed  through  at  the  knees?  .  .  .  He 
smiled.  Laura  would.  .  .  .  Yes — one  came  back  to  Laura 
.  .  .  And  if  there  were  no  mystery  in  Laura's  eyes,  whose 
was  the  fault?  .  .  . 

Laura — Laura — a  singing  name.  .  .  .  He  wished  he 
could  make  up  his  mind.  .  .  .  He  wished  she  would  say 
something  to  him.  .  .  . 

But  Laura  sat  silent.  Knowing  him  as  she  knew  her 
Bible,  she  was  generally  aware  of  the  trend  of  his  thoughts, 
for  his  simplicity  was  always  naively  defeating  his  reserve. 
She  felt,  she  knew,  how  easily  because  unconsciously,  a 
word  from  her,  a  glance,  a  gesture  even,  might  weigh  down, 
at  that  moment,  the  balanced  scales.  And  two  years  ago 
she  would  have  had  no  scruples:  would  have  snatched  at 
happiness  as  a  child  snatches  at  a  robin,  curious,  friendly, 
hopping  closer  and  closer.  But  now  she  could  sit  quiet, 
light-breathing,  letting  it  query  and  advance,  and  retreat 
and  advance  again,  letting  it  flit  from  knee  to  hand,  from 
hand  to  shoulder,  to  perch  there  singing  its  song  to  her,  to 
stay  with  her  or  fly  away  again  at  its  own  will. 

No — she  would  not  appeal.  .  .  .  He  must  be  free,  as  she 
had  learned  to  be  free.  ...  In  her  garden  she  had  flowers 
for  him — thornless  roses,  fruits  to  satisfy  a  man's  hunger 
and  thirst.  .  .  .  But  he  must  pluck  them  for  himself.  .  .  . 
She  would  proffer  nothing.  .  .  . 

Yet  she  felt  his  intensity  of  unrest  as  if  it  were  her  own. 
In  that  hour  a  sixth  sense  was  love-lent  to  her,  so  that  she 
saw  his  mind,  with  its  crowded,  conflicting  thoughts  that 
ran  hither  and  thither  like  ants,  with  stumblings  and  be- 
wilderments, with  futile  crossings  and  re-crossings,  yet 
always  with  a  definite  surge  forward  in  one  direction,  in  her 
direction.  His  turmoil  affected  her  strangely:  she  found 
herself  watching  him  placidly,  with  a  sort  of  amused  sym- 
pathy. She  knew  how  indignantly  he  disliked  not  being 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  31S 

sure  about  everything  in  the  world.  Poor  Justin !  It  must 
be  maddening  to  him  not  to  be  sure  about  himself.  .  .  . 

All  this  on  the  surface  of  her  mind:  underneath,  her 
whole  soul  was  crying  out  to  him,  "Justin! — Justin!"  call- 
ing his  name,  passionately,  with  insistent  iteration,  as  a 
bird  calls  to  its  delaying  mate. 

And  he,  as  if  he  heard,  turned  to  her — 

"Laura " 

"Yes,  Justin?" 

After  all,  he  was  very  fond  of  her.  .  .  .  She  belonged 
in.  ...  The  war  had  swept  away  so  much  .  .  .  only  the 
bare  verities  survived — duty — sleep — home — and  Laura. 
.  .  .  Surely  he  meant  Laura  too,  when  he  thought,  out 
there,  of  coming  home?  Suppose  he  came  home  one  day 
and  found  her  gone?  .  .  . 

His  keen  annoyance  at  the  notion  was  queerly  familiar. 
He  had  utterly  forgotten  the  incidents  of  their  engagement- 
day,  and  that  she  had  ever  told  him  that  she  might  leave 
Brackenhurst ;  but  he  was  certainly  aware  of  an  old  annoy- 
ance, and  of  something  newer,  stronger  than  annoyance — a 
chill,  snaky  pang  that  was  very  like  fear. 

Laura  gone? 

Flower  o'  the  quince.  .  .  .  How  the  catches  rang  in  his 
head! 

Flower  o'  the  quince, 
I  let  Lisa  go,  and  what  good  in  life  since? 

Oh,  if  it  came  to  that! 

He  must  have  spoken  aloud,  for  she  lifted  her  eyes. 
She  was  startled  to  see  him  coming  to  her  across  the  room, 
hard-pressed,  in  desperate  fashion,  like  a  man  who  would 
shake  off  his  own  shadow.  She  half  rose.  She  was  sud- 
denly frightened.  She  put  out  her  hands,  fending  him 
off. 

"Justin — Justin — be  sure " 

She  fell  back  in  her  chair  because  he  was  so  near. 

"Justin — wait.     Be  sure.     Be  very,  very  sure."     Her 


FIRST  THE  BLADE 

lips  trembled  childishly.  "You  must  be  sure.  If  you 
found  out,  afterwards I  couldn't  stand  it — twice." 

It  was  so  unlike  her  that  he  was  shocked.  He  thought 
she  must  have  suffered  beyond  belief  to  say  such  a  thing 
to  him.  Sure?  He  would  show  her!  .  .  .  For  an  instant 
he  was  a  man  enlightened — forgetting  all  himself  in  an  im- 
pulse of  pure  tenderness.  He  would  show  her !  .  .  . 

"Laura " 

'One!  two!  three!  four!'  The  clock  chimed  in — sweet, 
icy,  maliciously  sedate.  'And  your  train,  Justin?  And 
your  train?'  Its  echoes  were  lost  in  the  crunch  of  the 
punctual  wheels  on  the  drive. 

His  hands  dropped  again,  between  impatience  and  relief. 

Laura  rose  hastily.  It  was  pitiful  to  watch  Martha  oust- 
ing Mary  in  her  face.  She  was  the  old  Laura,  the  wistful, 
anxious  Laura  again,  full  of  words  and  plannings  and 
solicitudes. 

"You  must  go.  I  had  forgotten.  I  had  forgotten  the 
war.  It  isn  't  the  time.  You  mustn  't  lose  your  train,  Jus- 
tin. Will  you  go  quickly  to  your  mother?  Your  bag — 
your  mackintosh — I  '11  see  to  your  things.  I  'm  coming  with 
you.  I  want  to  come  with  you.  Your  umbrella —  Of 
course!  Soldiers  don't  have  umbrellas." 

She  followed  him  into  the  hall,  and  while  he  ran  up- 
stairs, went  out  on  to  the  steps  where  old  Robert  and  the 
dog-cart  awaited  him.  She  spoke  quickly. 

"You  can  get  down,  Robert.     I  am  driving  Mr.  Justin." 

Robert,  with  a  tall  fighting  son  of  his  own,  was  tenacious 
of  his  crack  with  the  young  master.  He  expostulated  re- 
spectfully. There  had  never  been  so  fresh  a  mare  as  the 
mare  between  the  shafts  of  the  dog-cart. 

But  Miss  Laura — courteous,  thoughtful  Miss  Laura — cut 
inexorably  through  his  suggestions. 

"I'm  driving  Mr.  Justin,  Robert.  He  won't  be  a  mo- 
ment. ' ' 

She  took  the  reins  from  his  unwilling  hand  and  springing 
up,  settled  herself  quickly  in  his  rightful  place.  He  might 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  315 

have  been  a  chauffeur,  a  hired  chauffeur,  from  her  tone. 
He  retired  to  the  back  seat,  outraged. 

They  said  nothing  at  all  during  their  short  drive. 
Laura's  eyes,  and  for  all  Justin  knew  her  thoughts,  were 
on  the  mare's  ears,  a-prick  for  an  excuse  to  shy.  And  his 
thoughts  had  travelled  ahead  of  him.  He  was  wondering 
where  he  should  find  his  men,  and  how.  ...  In  a  way  he 
shouldn't  be  sorry  to  get  back.  .  .  .  One  never  knew  what 
might  happen  when  one  left  the  show  to  other  people.  .  .  . 
Yet  how  he  hated  leaving  it  all  ...  his  mother  .  .  .  and 
the  quiet  .  .  .  and  his  own  den  .  .  .  and  Laura.  ...  As 
for  Laura — he  was  glad — he  was  sorry — that  their  talk  had 
broken  where  it  had.  .  .  .  But  Laura  was  right.  ...  It 
wasn  't  the  time.  .  .  .  He  had  seen,  as  in-  a  crystal,  a  blurred 
glimpse  of  what  the  future  might  hold  for  him — Fair  Haven 
or  Fata  Morgana — but  which  he  could  not  tell  ...  he  had 
not  time  to  tell.  .  .  . 

Fair  Haven  .  .  .  his  home — his  wife — his  children,  his 
own  children — a  slip  of  a  daughter,  maybe — a  fierce,  rain- 
drenched  imp  with  eyes  like  diamonds — with  eyes  like 
Laura's.  .  .  . 

Fair  Haven?  Fata  Morgana?  How  was  he  to  know? 
Good  Lord,  how  was  he  to  know  ?  .  .  . 

And  then,  resentfully "Why  couldn't  Laura — no, 

that  wasn't  fair — she  wasn't  that  sort — but  why  couldn't 
Life  leave  him  alone  ?  He  was  doing  his  job — he  was  fight- 
ing. Why  couldn't  Life  leave  it  at  that?  .  .  .  Life,  ob- 
livious of  wars  and  peaces,  sitting  like  a  spider  in  her  great 
web,  spinning  entanglements.  .  .  .  But  he  would  not  be 
involved  in  her  cobwebbery  of  commingling  lives.  .  .  . 
Why  shouldn't  he  be  on  his  own?  .  .  . 

Flower  o'  the  peach, 
Death  for  us  all,  and  his  own  life  for  each!  •» 

His  own  life  for  each!  .  .  .  There — there  was  common 
sense  at  last,  behind  the  fever  and  the  glamour!  .  .  .  His 
own  life  for  each.  .  .  . 


316  FIRST  THE  BLADE 

And  yet — one  was  lonely  sometimes.  .  .  . 

Oh,  well — he  must  think  things  out.  .  .  .  But  not  now. 
.  .  .  Laura  was  right — it  wasn  't  the  time.  He  clung  to  the 
comfortable  phrase.  That  was  the  best  of  Laura.  .  .  .  She 
was  a  reasonable  woman  .  .  .  never  worried  you.  ...  It 
was  worth  while  to  be  at  peace  with  Laura.  .  .  . 

How  the  week  had  flown!  He  wished  he  had  had  time 
to  go  to  London  again.  .  .  .  There  was  that  play  he  had 
wanted  to  see.  ...  It  must  wait  for  his  next  leave.  .  .  . 
His  next  leave!  He  was  as  bad  as  Laura!  And  he  had 
forgotten  to  order — but  he  had  given  Laura  the  list.  .  .  . 
Laura  would  see  to  all  that.  ...  It  would  be  a  great  relief 
to  be  able  to  write  to  Laura  again  ...  he  hated  worrying 
his  mother.  .  .  .  And  Laura  didn't  mind  the  bother.  .  .  . 
It  was  comical — he  really  believed  she  enjoyed  it.  ... 
"Women  were  amazing  creatures.  .  .  . 

They  were  none  too  soon  at  the  station.  Laura  had 
barely  time  to  settle  him  in  a  carriage  with  his  ticket  and 
his  paper  and  his  pipe,  when  a  black  and  burly  voice  in- 
terposed between  her  and  the  carriage  door — 

"Stand  back,  please — stand  back  now,  please!" 

The  train  began  to  move. 

Justin  thrust  out  a  friendly  hand. 

' '  Well — good-bye,  Laura. ' ' 

"Good-bye,  Justin." 

She  kept  pace  for  a  moment  with  the  gathering  speed  of 
the  train. 

"Justin — take  care!  You  will  take  care ?  Don't  bother 
about  V.C.s.  and  things." 

He  laughed  at  that.  She  could  do  so  little  for  him,  but 
at  least  she  could  always  make  him  laugh. 

The  train  carried  away  Justin  laughing. 

She  watched  it  dwindle  to  a  toy  and  vanish  in  the  tunnel, 
and  still  stood  watching  till  the  track  wavered  and  danced, 
as  she  fought  her  blinding  tears  and  petitioned  the  skies  for 
Justin. 


FIRST  THE  BLADE  317 

"Keep  him  safe,  God.  0  God,  keep  him  safe.  Let  him 
come  back  to  me.  O  God,  let  him  come  back  to  me." 

One  voice  of  a  thousand  thousand,  uplifted  daily,  hourly, 
in  that  cry — how  shall  it  be  preferred? 

Yet  I  believe,  I  cannot  help  believing,  that  in  the  fulness 
of  time  he  will  come  back  to  her. 

Well,  Collaborator — do  you  like  it?  You  are  sitting  so 
silently  in  your  big  chair,  and  your  knitting  has  dropped  to 
the  floor 

Collaborator,  don't  look  so  solemn!  They're  not  real 
people !  They  're  not  real  troubles !  Only  marionettes  that 
we  have  set  a- jig- jigging  up  and  down  our  mantelpiece  to 
make  us  laugh  o'  nights,  and  forget  the  unending  war. 
And  now  we  will  send  them  jigging  up  and  down  printed 
pages,  to  do  the  same,  if  they  can,  for  other  poor  folk. 

Do  you  know  how  late  it  is,  Collaborator  ?  Rake  out  the 
fire,  if  you  please,  and  come  to  bed. 

What  is  the  matter?  You  feel  cheated?  We  have  seen 
the  completion  of  Laura,  you  say — but  only  the  beginning 
of  Justin?  But  that  is  the  story!  It  was  to  be  a  comedy 
of  growth — not  a  drama  of  maturity.  First  the  blade,  then 
the  ear — I  never  promised  you  the  full  corn. 

Still  you  are  not  satisfied?  You  protest  that  you  are  a 
practical  person  who  calls  a  spade  a  spade,  and  you  want 
to  know,  and  you  want  to  know,  and  you  want  to  know ? 

Why,  then  you  must  go  on  with  the  book  by  yourself, 
Collaborator,  and  in  your  own  way.  I'm  at  the  end  of  my 
inventions.  I'm  tired.  I  want  to  go  to  bed.  I  know  no 
more  of  Justin  Cloud  and  Laura  Valentine. 

February  1916— October  1917. 


FEINTED    IN    THE    UNITED    STATES    OF    AMERICA 


""THE  following  pages  contain  advertisements  of  books  by 
the  same  author  or  on  kindred  subjects. 


Regiment  of  Women 

BY  CLEMENCE  DANE 


Cloth,  12°,  $1.50 


"  A  striking  novel  ...  its  descriptive  and  psychological  brilliancy 
equals  that  of  the  best  work  offered  in  modern  fiction." — American 
Review  of  Reviews. 

"  Its  types  are  so  individually  alive,  its  psychology  is  so  well 
dramatized  and  so  little  dissected,  and  its  tragedy  dissolves  so 
naturally  into  a  glad  denouement,  that  its  '  too  much '  is  distinctly 
that  of  a  good  thing." — Life. 

" '  Regiment  of  Women '  is  a  remarkable  novel.  It  places  the  au- 
thor immediately  among  the  leading  fiction  writers  of  England." — 
New  York  Globe. 

"'Regiment  of  Women'  introduces  a  very  remarkable  character 
.  .  .  one  of  the  most  powerfully  drawn  figures  in  contemporary 
literature.  Miss  Dane  has  made  a  vivid  story,  well  calculated  to 
hold  the  reader's  attention  from  the  very  beginning  and  to  command 
his  praise  at  the  end." — Morning  Telegraph. 

"  The  author  has  been  daring  in  confining  her  tale  so  long  to 
women,  but  she  has  succeeded.  .  .  .  She  has  a  distinct  sense  of 
style  and  much  of  the  value  of  the  novel,  which  is  interesting  be- 
cause of  its  perverseness,  is  due  to  the  entire  adequacy  of  its  dic- 
tion."—  Boston  Transcript. 

"Written  in  an  exceedingly  graphic  and  vital  way  .  .  .  done  with 
a  fine  restrained,  always  significant  touch  that  reveals  in  the  author 
an  artist  of  power,  taste,  knowledge  and  skill." — New  York  Times. 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

Publishers     64-66  Fifth  Avenue     New  York 


The  Tree  of  Heaven 

BY  MAY  SINCLAIR 


Cloth,  $1.60 


"  Thoughtful,  dramatic,  vivid,  always  well  and  at  times  beautifully 
written,  full  of  real  people  skilfully  analyzed  and  presented,  "  The 
Tree  of  Heaven  "  is  one  of  the  few  great  books  which  have  as  yet 
come  out  of  the  war." — New  York  Times. 

"  Miss  Sinclair's  genius  consists  in  being  able  to  combine  great 
art  with  a  popular  story-telling  gift.  All  her  detail,  the  many  little 
miracles  of  observation  and  understanding,  are  not  dead  nor  cata- 
logued, but  are  merged  into  the  living  body  of  her  continuously  in- 
teresting narrative." — New  York  Globe. 

"  Genius  illumines  every  page  of  one  of  the  most  impressive  works 
of  fiction  of  today.  It  is  a  novel  of  extraordinary  power  and  worth 
ranking  assuredly  among  the  novels  of  our  time  which  will  make  a 
lasting  mark  on  literature  and  upon  human  thought  and  life." — 
New  York  Tribune. 

"  Miss  Sinclair  has  written  nothing  that  so  perfectly  represents 
the  chaotic  spirit  of  England  during  the  past  twenty  years.  The 
story  contains  much  of  matters  that  have  nothing  to  do  with  the 
war  and  in  all  of  them  she  has  portrayed  the  English  character  to 
the  life." — Boston  Transcript. 

"  The  Book  of  the  day  is  '  The  Tree  of  Heaven.'  It  is  a  war 
novel  —  a  gripping  one.  The  story  does  not  take  us  out  of  England 
except  in  a  few  letters  written  from  the  battlefields  towards  the 
close  of  the  book,  but  it  shows  powerfully  the  effect  of  war  on 
England,  as  represented  by  a  typical  group  of  people,  a  most  love- 
able  family,  and  their  varied  connections  and  friends." — Philadel- 
phia Telegraph. 

"  Stands  out  at  once,  and  emphatically,  from  the  common  run  of 
books  because  it  is  a  work  of  art.  ...  A  work  of  sheer  artistry, 
well  worth  the  doing,  and  done  at  the  full  strength  and  compass  of 
skilled  workmanship,  it  ranks  fairly  among  the  best  work  of  its 
kind  in  modern  fiction;  among  the  very  best." — New  York  Sun. 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

Publishers     64-66  Fifth  Avenue     New  York 


The  Martial  Adventures 
of  Henry  and  Me 


BY  WILLIAM  ALLEN  WHITE 
Author  of  "  A  Certain  Rich  Man,"  etc. 

Cloth  I2mo. 

What  happened  to  these  two  when  the  work  of  the  Red 
Cross  took  them  from  their  quiet  newspaper  offices  in  Kan- 
sas, and  suddenly  plunged  them  into  the  turmoil  of  the  war 
makes  a  fascinating  narrative. 

There  is  an  irresistable  humor  in  the  adventures  of  the 
two  fat,  bald  middle  aged,  inland  Americans,  as  they  go 
through  war-ridden  Europe,  watching  the  romance  of  the 
"  Eager  Soul  "  and  the  "  Gilded  Youth  "  and  the  "  Young 
Doctor."  And  there  is  much  keenness  and  sympathy  in 
the  description  of  the  cities  they  visit  and  the  people  they 
talk  to. 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

Publishers     64-66  Fifth  Avenue     New  York 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

305  De  Neve  Drive  -  Parking  Lot  17  •  Box  951388 

LOS  ANGELES,  CALIFORNIA  90095-1388 
Return  this  material  to  the  library  from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


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